Come Fly With Me
by regrette rien
Summary: S/J. The boys get a well-earned holiday, and really, truly, make the most of it. Who am I kidding? Multiple-chaptered PWP. Enjoy! :D
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: So, after the positive feedback on a couple of my other S/J fics where the boys get up to antics on various forms of transport (****A Quick Trip**** and ****It's Not ALL Bad****), and a suggestion from the lovely PurpleOrchid85, I was lucky enough to be attacked by plotbunnies on a recent plane trip.**

**This story is considerably longer than those ones, but I hope that doesn't ruin the fun!**

**So, I bring to you some hopefully not-rubbish plane sex! Hooray! Enjoy, and remember, comments are love!**

To be honest, John had been somewhat surprised that Sherlock had suggested the holiday trip that was a compromise between their differing wants.

John wanted to visit Italy, and Spain, and enjoy some places where people smiled, and emoted, and bickered amiably. He wanted sunshine and beaches and meals that had ingredients with variety and colour.

What had Sherlock wanted? To stay in London. And when pressed to choose an actual _overseas_ holiday location, had shrugged and relented. "France, then. It was quite interesting last time I went."

John had never realised how very Gallic Sherlock truly was in some of his self-expression and body language. He wondered whether all the sorry individuals in Britain who had been lumped with the label "sociopath" were, in fact, merely first-generation Brits with French heritage, just like the consulting detective. He dismissed the thought almost immediately. It was impossible for all the first-generation Brits to also be super geniuses.

"France? I don't want to go to France at this time of year, Sherlock... What about Mauritius? They speak French there." John suggested, trying to be accommodating.

Sherlock turned from his book and scowled at John in such a withering manner that were John absolutely any other man on Earth, he would have been utterly destroyed. Lucky for John that he was not so susceptible to Sherlock's derision.

"_Mauritius_," Sherlock growled malevolently, "Is _not_ France, John. They speak a _derivation _of French, have an entirely different climate, ecosystem, societal structure –"

John cut him off with a hand raised in a 'cease and desist' gesture. He just wanted to get the damn holiday booked.

"_Alright_, Sherlock. I won't make such a horrible mistake again."

Sherlock clenched his jaw in a way that suggested that his sensibilities were still deeply offended, but he knew that for the sake of keeping the peace between the doctor and himself, would be better off discontinuing his tirade. Apparently, John was having some effect on his ability to be considerate of others, after all.

"See that you don't." he muttered angrily, turning back to his book.

John sighed. He wanted them to have a holiday they'd _both_ enjoy, and was willing to make compromises to make it work, but he couldn't do that without any proper input from Sherlock.

"You're going on this holiday, too. You could help me figure out what to book, and where." John grumbled, clicking on yet another link proclaiming itself to lead to "The _Real_ Bueno Spaña" and rolling his eyes at the cheesy flash animations that popped up on his screen as a result.

"No need to book," Sherlock explained, just a shade away from his truly condescending 'just-how-much-of-an-idiot-are-you' voice. "I own an estate in Bordeaux. Inherited it from my grandfather. It's been in the family for years. There's a permanent groundsman and housekeeper, and it would only be a matter of a few texts to the right people to organise for the chauffeur, butler and maid to be called to their duties."

John was amazed at Sherlock's matter-of-factness about it all. An estate in France! Sometimes he forgot how different their childhoods must have been. "Servants?" he exclaimed.

"Please, John." Sherlock said with a note of disgust. "Staff. They're human beings, you know."

John bit back his laughter at Sherlock telling him to be more considerate of others' feelings for a change, and admitted, "Okay, I'm intrigued now, Sherlock. I want to see this house."

"Estate." Sherlock corrected in a bored tone, his mobile now in his hands.

John ignored him. "But I _still_ want to go to Spain."

Sherlock sighed, but there was no true exasperation, just an expression of how very tedious he found the whole conversation.

"Mallorca?" he inquired, and John knew better than to ask how Sherlock had deduced that, when John had never mentioned a desire to visit the city previously. Instead, he nodded.

"Tolerable." was Sherlock's generous verdict.

"So which one should I book?" John asked, hand hovering over the mouse.

Sherlock glanced up from his lightning-texting. "I told you," he explained in what passed for patiently in Sherlockese. "You don't need to _book_ Bordeaux – I've done that now. So go ahead and book Mallorca. Whatever hotel takes your fancy. And please, _don't _complain about the costs. It's a _holiday_, John."

John clicked 'book' before he realised exactly what was going on. "Wait…are we going to _both_?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I don't see why not. It seems a perfect compromise." he stated, and John had to stop himself responding in surprise again to Sherlock's ability to make _any_ allowances for others.

Instead, he stood, moved to the couch, and perched only slightly awkwardly on the gap between Sherlock's hip and the edge of the sofa. Sherlock turned his full attention to him, his expression unreadable. That mean he was uncertain, John had learned. Sherlock in an unfamiliar situation locked himself away behind a mask of indifference as a form of self-defence, rather than admit a lack of knowledge. He leant forward, looking Sherlock dead in the eye.

"You're brilliant, you know." he whispered, a huge smile on his face.

Sherlock's eyes lit up. "I have rather had my suspicions." he grinned, then feigned a thinking expression. "Brilliance is the one that gets rewarded, right?"

John chuckled, and dipped his head down to kiss Sherlock lightly on the lips. "It definitely is," he agreed, and proceeded to ensure that Sherlock well and truly received his reward.

"Why would you _deliberately _book a seat in the emergency exit row?" John griped, as he struggled to shove his bag in the overhead lockers – they seemed to be specially designed just a couple of centimetres too narrow so that fitting any luggage in them was guaranteed to be a challenge.

"Long legs." Sherlock responded, stretching them out as if to demonstrate.

Naturally, he'd already stowed his bag, and had claimed the aisle seat, tapping furiously away at his phone before he was forced to switch it off.

"It's not healthy to endure a cramped position for an extended period of time. Inhibits thought processes." he explained.

John rolled his eyes. He was sure he'd never heard anything about leg cramps being associated with thought processes during his years at medical school, but hey, what would he know?

"It's a flight to _France_," he pointed out. "We'll be in the air for less than an hour. You can't sit in a small space for less than an hour, but you can sleep curled up on the sofa?"

"I'm asleep then. I don't need to have efficient thought processes." Sherlock refused to admit fault in his logic.

John placed his hands on his hips. "Being in the emergency exit row gives us _responsibilities_, Sherlock." he stated, determinedly _not_ complaining, just pointing out facts.

"Which you are entirely capable of carrying out." Sherlock mentioned coolly, but the compliment was noticeable.

"Thank you, I know," John said, finally fitting his bag in the locker and shutting the door. "But I'm on holiday. I don't want to have responsibilities. Responsibilities are entirely against the point of holidays."

Sherlock looked up from his phone and fixed John with a steady gaze. "We're going to be in the air for less than an hour. Do you truly think it's likely that the circumstances will arise that you will _need_ to carry out the duties inherent in sitting in this row?"

_Dammit_.

Sherlock smirked, realising that he'd won. His face then took on an inquisitive expression. "What _is_ the point of holidays?"

"Oh, I don't know. They don't really have a point. Relaxation. A change of scenery. Spontaneity." John waved his hand dismissively. Trust Sherlock to want definitions for the indefinable. "Can you move? I want to sit down now."

Sherlock had returned to his mobile, and his only concession to John's request was to tuck his legs out of the way. John resigned himself to squeeze past, and shuffled awkwardly, his stomach pressed against the seats in front of theirs.

It seemed that Sherlock was not ignoring John as much as he'd pretended to be, because just when John got directly in front of him, two hands latched onto his arsecheeks, fingers splayed and squeezing appreciatively, thumbs tracing down along his crack and deciding to tease around his perineum.

John gasped. He had never been so simultaneously glad and annoyed about wearing clothing around Sherlock.

He was released after a moment, and dropped into the window seat, turning to face Sherlock and tell him just how inappropriate that was, when he realised that Sherlock had snaked over into the middle seat now and was right within John's personal space.

Irrationally, John felt trapped, backed up against the side of the plane. Sherlock wasn't really a predator...so why was he looking at John like the other man would have a very good idea as to where Sherlock's next meal was coming from?

"An hour is a _very_ long time when I'm bored, John." Sherlock stated. "I'm not allowed my computer," he traced one finger up John's leg, beginning at the knee. "My phone, or my violin. The only thing left is to conduct some...experiments." he glanced meaningfully at John's crotch on the last word, and john found that his mouth had completely dried up.

"You're not going to blow me in the middle of an airplane, Sherlock." He meant it to be an order, but it turned out as more of a plea.

Sherlock's grin was triumphant. "I haven't decided." He continued to trace teasing patterns with his fingers near John's crotch, then slipped his hands down the outsides of John's hips, away from his cock, and John craved the illicit contact again.

"Safety first!" Sherlock instructed, in a near-agonisingly chirpy manner, fastening the just-retrieved ends of John's seatbelt together, and planting a darting kiss on John's lips.

He sat back in the seat and fastened his own seatbelt, switched off his mobile, and folded his hands in his lap, looking for all the world as though there was nothing more interesting than the safety demonstration currently taking place.

John tried to pay attention to it, but his cheeks were burning and his mind was racing. Sherlock wasn't really going to blow him in their seats, was he? It was way too public! It would be an entirely new level of exhibitionism in their relationship, and John was sure that he wouldn't enjoy it, but his cock seemed to have different ideas and perked up hopefully the more John thought about Sherlock's wicked tongue.

He shifted uncomfortably as the plane taxied down the runway. He'd have to go to the bathroom once the seatbelt sign was switched off. This was intolerable.

The plane, as planes do, built up momentum and began to lift off, and John found himself pressed against the back of his seat as a result of two entirely irresistible forces: gravity, and Sherlock Holmes.

"If you wanted the window seat," John complained breathlessly, "Why didn't you just book it for yourself when you selected our tickets?"

Sherlock just pushed John further into the seat as he attempted to stick his own head through the window. "The window seat is entirely dull for the rest of the flight, John. I have no tolerance for that."

"Of course." John muttered sarcastically, trying not to get more turned on by Sherlock's proximity and delicious smell.

A mercifully short moment later, Sherlock withdrew, commenting on the fortuitous timing of their holiday, as London looked set to be agonisingly crime-free for at least a month. John couldn't even begin to imagine what Sherlock had seen out the plane window for him to come to that conclusion, a mental process which was further prohibited by Sherlock maliciously brushing his hand over the tent in John's trousers.

John groaned at the contact, and Sherlock hmmed, apparently quite pleased with himself. John glared at him.

The seatbelt sign dinged off, and John unbuckled straight away.

Sherlock looked at him curiously.

"Bathroom." John muttered. "I have to take care of something. Do you mind _not_ molesting me as I go past you this time?"

Despite grinning sinfully, Sherlock sat on his hands in a gesture that he would do no evil.

John darted past as quickly as possible, and was relieved that the bathrooms were still unoccupied. He slammed the door shut and locked it, barely able to undo his trousers in time, his hands were shaking so much. He may even have audibly moaned at the relief of pissing, and he hadn't done that in ages. He lowered the lid, flushed, and washed his hands.

But biology had a different idea, and his cock let him know that he still hadn't found the desired release.

Unsummoned, his mind conjured up pictures of Sherlock licking, sucking, playing, and John sat on the toilet lid, working one hand down his pants, and stroking. Imagine if Sherlock really did jump on him at their seats. Imagine getting caught. Imagine the pleasure completely intertwined with embarrassment.

A knock on the door stopped him short.

"Um, it's occupied," he called out.

"John, open the door," came a very familiar voice in response.

"My trousers are undone," John replied without thinking, then mentally kicked himself for making such an utterly stupid comment.

"Yes...I imagine they are. Now open the door." Sherlock insisted.

John didn't reply. If he let Sherlock into the cubicle, there was only one likely sequence of events.

"Do I have to pick the lock?"

Sherlock was getting impatient now, and John wouldn't be surprised to find out that Sherlock knew how to pick the lock on a plane toilet door, and was able to sneak the lock-picking implements through airport security.

He made sure he wasn't likely to expose himself, and slid the bolt across on the door.

Before he had a chance to open it, however, Sherlock had hurled himself through, colliding with John and making him stumble back onto the toilet seat lid.

Without turning away from John, Sherlock reached behind himself and closed and locked the door.

"No-one can see us in here," he said, looming over his conquest.

"People will still know what we've been up to," John protested, although his words were somewhat undermined by the fact that he was reaching up to pull Sherlock's face to his so that he could kiss him.

Sherlock complied, bending with difficulty in the confined space.

"We're on a flight to _France_, John. Sexual relations in the bathroom are practically compulsory." he pointed out. "Don't tell me you are unaware of that social stereotype." he teased, impossibly twisting his knees onto the tiny shelves on either side of the toilet seat, effectively depositing himself in John's lap.

He slithered a hand down John's still-opened trousers, and the two men moaned simultaneous expressions of appreciation.

"I thought social stereotypes were offensive and ridiculous?" John gasped, hardly able to string the sentence together.

Sherlock's hands felt so good. Much more enjoyable than John's own hands, and John actually did know his own feelings and desires – he was the one _experiencing_ them for crying out loud, unlike Sherlock, who assessed John's enjoyment through observation...but damn, he was good at it.

"Do you really want to get into that now?" Sherlock inquired, his breath coming in hot pants against John's ear.

"No." John cut off the conversation thread. "I'd much rather get into you."

_What the fuck was he saying?_ He instantly berated himself, blushing at the ridiculous line.

"Excellent." Sherlock declared, and stood in a rapid, fluid movement. John was distracted by Sherlock using those lethal hands to strip himself off, but then managed to come to his senses enough to work his own trousers down his legs.

"Oh god, Sherlock," he moaned, as Sherlock slid back into place. The heat of their arousals so close to each other was not just disruptive to thought patterns; it was entirely destructive.

"Lube?" John requested, trying not to back his elbow against the sink as he stroked Sherlock to full hardness.

"Fuck, John, fuck!" Sherlock exclaimed, the rhythm of his hips and his strokes of John's cock both stuttering. "Holiday spontaneity doesn't quite lend itself to good preparation..." he observed, but John felt a cool gel get transferred from Sherlock's hand into his own.

John forced himself to focus. "Huh?" he asked eloquently.

Sherlock darted his eyes to one of the containers on the sink top. Complimentary moisturiser.

"It'll have to do." Sherlock stated. "Please, John, quickly." he encouraged. "The plane will begin its descent in a few minutes, and I'd much prefer that we disembark in states of satisfaction, not frustration."

"Good plan," John breathed, and set about ensuring that Sherlock was ready.

The moisturiser was not nearly as helpful as actual lube would have been, John realised, after removing his fingers, and finding that he needed to grit his teeth against the dragging burn of his entry into Sherlock.

"Ah!" Sherlock gasped, slamming a hand into the wall next to John's head.

"Sorry." John whispered, holding as still as he could, to allow Sherlock time to adjust.

"It's okay," Sherlock ground out through his clenched jaw, then released a breath slowly. "Okay," he grinned, and the in-control genius was back, riding John slowly, in that familiar way, but now it was better, so much better, with the underlying vibratory hum of the plane's engines, and the combined pressures of a time limit and potential discovery. It was quicker than usual, and John couldn't help but think that was mainly due to Sherlock pacing them – clenching and releasing and rocking in such enticing and tortuous ways – how was John expected to be able to even _consider_ having anything remotely resembling self-control?

"Come on John, do it, yes, come on, yes, yes, yes," Sherlock was chanting nonsensically, the mantra drowned out suddenly by John finally, thankfully reaching completion.

The two slumped against each other, panting heavily, and John moaned a regretful "Oh god."

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked, the concern in his voice saying what he didn't express in words – _Didn't you enjoy it? Did I do it wrong?_

John kissed him reassuringly. "It's fine, don't worry. That was great. That was more than great. You're fantastic. It's just...I can't believe how fucking cliché this is. I mean, print off our membership cards for the Mile High Club already, right?" he chuckled, rubbing his hands up and down Sherlock's thighs.

Sherlock smiled, and leant in for another kiss, the change in his position causing John to realise that the detective was still half-hard. He broke off the kiss quickly, and enveloped Sherlock's cock with one hand, barely beginning any movements before Sherlock batted his hand away.

"Ssst!" he hissed, and John looked at him in confusion for a second, until a rap on the door revealed what he had been paying attention to.

"Sir? Is everything okay in there? We will be beginning our descent in a moment, and you are required to return to your seat for landing." the voice of one of the stewardesses called out.

"C'est occupé!" Sherlock called back, feigning ignorance of her words.

"Je suis désolé, monsieur. Comment vous sentez-vous? L'avion apprêtait à atterrir. Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plaÎt."

The confidence in her voice diminished significantly when she was speaking French, John noticed. She didn't speak it very well? Sherlock sneered critically, confirming John's assessment.

"Vraiment?" Jesus, he was even sarcastic in French. "D'accord. Merci pour l'information." [*A/N: Translations at the bottom of the page]

Her muffled footsteps moved away, and Sherlock finally lifted himself off John's cock, causing John to sigh at the sensation of cool air.

"Are you sure you're okay?" John whispered urgently, gesturing towards Sherlock's crotch, which the detective was efficiently hiding away beneath his clothes again.

"It's fine," Sherlock shrugged off John's concern. "It was your fantasy to fuck on a plane, anyway." he smiled, and John felt that irrepressible chill that occurred every time Sherlock proved yet again that he could read John's mind.

They spaced their returns to their seats, but John's ears still burned, as though he was wearing a huge sign proclaiming 'I just had sex in the loo!' for all to see.

"You're quite charming when you blush," Sherlock noted, as John tried his best to vanish into his seat cushion. "I should make you do it more often." he added, ponderously.

"Fuck," John whispered, terrified, yet inarguably excited about what he'd managed to get himself into.

"That's one way, certainly," Sherlock agreed, steepling his fingers as he plotted various other make-John-blush strategies.

The wheels descended then, and the plane dipped toward the earth. John was only half prepared for Sherlock lunging across to stare out the window again.

"Oh, good." he commented. "Laurent is waiting for us."

John couldn't see out the window due to the wild mane now blocking it, but he was certain that the airport wasn't visible from this side of the plane.

"Don't be simple, John," Sherlock criticised, though John hadn't verbalised his scepticism. "I can see the estate from here, and the traffic patterns between it and Laurent's usual route to the airport indicate that he would have had an uninterrupted drive, especially since he would have left at least twenty minutes ago, to allow for the possibility of traffic delays. He is terribly conscientious, you'll find."

"I'm sure I will, Sherlock." John smiled, wrapping one arm around the detective's waist and planting a kiss in his hair.

"One question before we disembark, John." Sherlock announced, straightening up in his seat.

"Um, sure?" John permitted, with no idea what Sherlock could possibly need to ask him.

"What on earth is the Mile High Club?"

-  
TBC  
-

**A/N: I don't speak French, so if anyone wants to French-pick the little dialogue in the middle there, feel free! Although, the stewardess is *meant* to not be brilliant at French, so please don't get hung up on her dodgy language skills :)**

**TRANSLATIONS:**

**C'est occupé! – Occupied!**

**Je suis désolé, monsieur. Comment vous sentez-vous? L'avion apprêtait à atterrir. ****Asseyez-vous, s'il vous plaÎt. – I'm sorry, sir. Are you well? The plane is about to land. Please return to your seat.**

**Vraiment? – Really?**

**D'accord. Merci pour l'information. – Okay, thank you for the information.**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Just a small aside to point out that, amazingly, Alec the gamekeeper in this story is heavily based on Alec the gamekeeper portrayed by Rupert Graves in the film 'Maurice'. Appearance-wise, anyway. HNNG. I hope this assists everyone's comprehension of the story, as well as enjoyment ;)  
xxRegretteRienxx**

It had been an excellent fortnight in Bordeaux, John reflected, grateful that Sherlock was allowing him to lean against the detective for support, despite the fact that he twitched impatiently at John's pace which was inevitably much slower than Sherlock's usual darts and strides.

He could damn well put up with it, John surmised, concentrating on putting one foot after the other, and wondering yet again just what the hell he'd gotten himself into – Sherlock was the one who had caused him to be near incapacitated, after all.

In the end, they'd barely seen anything of Bordeaux outside the estate grounds, and Sherlock, true to his word, had spent an inordinate amount of time working to make John blush.

So much so, that John was certain he would never again be able to look at a four-poster bed without going red.

Because of course, the bed they had stayed in had been a four-poster, and of course, Sherlock would do evil things to John such as ordering Tomas (the butler) to bring them breakfast in bed, and then spend the minutes just prior to Tomas coming into the room, waking John up with kisses that drifted gradually lower, until he was invisible, submerged beneath the pile of blankets.

His location was no mystery to John, who was rendered breathless and weak, and of course, this point was precisely when Tomas would enter the room with a tray, greeting John with a cheerful "Good morning", and opening the curtains.

John usually managed to choke out a "Good morning" in response, but not reply to much of the rest of Tomas' general patter, commenting on the weather, and inquiring if John thought Sherlock would be likely to return to the room for breakfast, or if his breakfast should be removed and served at a later time.

Sherlock was then also supremely considerate of John in other aspects, and although each of the staff had greeted Sherlock enthusiastically in French, a short, sharp sentence from him had the staff all speaking English for the duration of their stay.

John was almost convinced they always spoke English, except that he'd overheard Sherlock dictating some sort of list to Tomas one day, _en Français_, and this had particularly sparked John's interest for two reasons, firstly, because he not-so-secretly adored hearing Sherlock speak French, and secondly, because there had been a word repeated three times between them: in a bored monotone from Sherlock, then questioningly by Tomas, as though he hadn't heard correctly, and then in assured confirmation from Sherlock again.

"Mais oui, monsieur." Tomas had nodded, and Sherlock continued with the rest of the list.

John wandered into the library while Sherlock finished off with Tomas, and managed to locate a French-English dictionary. It took him a moment to locate the word, because he'd thought it was "l'ubrifiant", not "lubrifiant", but that simply meant that the development of his blush was slightly delayed.

He almost dropped the dictionary when two long arms wrapped themselves around him and a kiss was deposited on his neck.

"There aren't a lot of books in English in here, I'm afraid," Sherlock commented, "and most of those are scientific textbooks. Do you want me to ask Tomas to get you a book? He's about to go shopping for some supplies."

_Lubrifiant_. John's mind supplied unhelpfully, and he shook his head, murmuring, "That's okay," as he carefully slid the dictionary back onto the shelf.

His blush had not abated when he turned around to return Sherlock's embrace, causing the detective to chuckle.

"I thought you were particularly warm," he teased, kissing John affectionately. "Did you overhear our shopping list?" he inquired, pressing against John in such a way that made him forget all about shopping, and wonder whether there were any rooms in the estate that the detective wouldn't try to have sex in. And pretty much succeed every time, if John was honest with himself.

Sherlock had also been embarrassingly possessive of John, most notably when he had come across the doctor chatting to Alec, (technically employed under the archaic title of gamekeeper, despite being the groundskeeper's son, and merely carrying out groundskeeping duties), in the gardens one day.

Alec had little interest in following directly in his father's footsteps, but was fascinated by plants' healing properties, and had aspirations of becoming a professional botanist. Unfortunately, although he'd completed his degree some years ago, he'd been required to assist his unwell father with his work, and had subsequently found it difficult to find any employment related to his degree.

John didn't know a lot about the healing properties of plants – everything was tablets and solutions and powders now, really, but he did know a little more than the typical layperson. And his knowledge approximately equivalent to Alec's ability to discuss the topic in English.

Suddenly, Sherlock appeared from around a corner. He took in the scene before him, completely misinterpreting John and Alec's proximity and mutual enjoyment of each others' company, and lunged between them with a growl.

"Sherlock!" John had cried out in surprise, stumbling backwards from the impact, but he wasn't able to do much more, as Sherlock attempted to devour his mouth.

Alec, who'd been thrown aside by Sherlock's enthusiastic attack, picked himself up and exclaimed, "Pourquoi tu as fait ça?"

Sherlock uttered a string of scolding, threatening French in response, which caused Alec to actually doff his cap and retreat, apologising "Je regrette, je regrette," as he departed.

"Slightly unnecessary," John chastised breathlessly, although not resisting Sherlock lowering him to the ground.

"He addressed me as 'tu', John," Sherlock explained, "and he's an _employee_. I can't exactly let that slide."

John's brain struggled to catch up.

"Not that," he argued arching into Sherlock's touch. "We were just talking. Nothing for you to be – oh god! – jealous about."

"Who said I was jealous?" Sherlock asked, alternating between nibbling at the corner of John's jaw and his earlobe. "I just couldn't wait another moment to throw you to the ground and fuck you," he grinned, and sat up a little, to be able to lower John's trousers. "Although, I'm a little disappointed he left. That could have been...an experience." he mused, and John groaned in arousal, blushing fiercely when he realised that inviting the very brunette, baby-faced botanist to join them was a serious turn-on for him.

"Oh," Sherlock observed John's blush happily, while the doctor kicked his legs free of his trousers. "Well, I'll be sure to ask him about that," he promised, and helped John's legs up over his shoulders.

John didn't remember much after the other man entered him in one smooth movement and began thrusting, but the small quirk of Angelique, the maid's mouth when she saw the grass stains on his shirt while she was collecting the laundry the next morning, still caused him to clear his throat and avoid her eye contact.

It had been a wonderful hell of a fortnight, with innumerable more moments like these, and John was amaze that his face wasn't just permanently pink with embarrassment.

Part of him was glad to be going to a private hotel cabin in an isolated part of Mallorca, maintained by invisible staff, and part of him was sad to leave the discreet and accepting behaviour of the Bordeaux staff.

Especially Alec, who had been quite receptive, and such a thrill when he'd joined them, had prompted Sherlock to offer him a flight to London once he and John returned from their holiday.

Alec had been terribly excited by this, because he hadn't been to the U.K. since he was a small child, and had constituted a cheaper air fare – one that his parents could afford.

"You great sap," John had teased Sherlock after Alec had left with a huge grin on his face. The two of them were snuggled up in the well-rumpled bed while Sherlock scanned Le Monde.

John had decided that Sherlock would be allowed this entertainment, so long as he didn't try to get involved with working on any cases further than phone calls or emails. Sherlock had threatened to launch into an epic sulk over the issue, until John had pointed out that he was getting his way in regards to many other aspects of their holiday – including tormenting John according to his whims, and if he wanted to be the world's only consulting detective based in France, then he might as well pack up all his things in Baker st and move to Bordeaux. Sherlock had considered this for a moment, but had decided that he found residing in London to be more appealing.

"Hardly a sap," he disputed John's accusation. "I merely noticed that you seemed to enjoy the variation that he, as an additional element, brought to the bedroom, and concluded that you would be pleased by a repeat of the activities."

"All for me, eh?" John smiled, kissing his way up Sherlock's neck. "I suppose if Alec is so very uninteresting to you, then, you don't need to bore yourself by getting involved when he comes over to London. Don't worry, I'm sure that he and I would only be dull and predictable anyway."

Sherlock had let out a choked cry of outrage and leapt onto John, getting the newspaper crumpled and tangled in the bedsheets.

"Don't even _think_ about it!" he menaced, but the twinkle in his eye showed he was playing along with John's game. "Otherwise, I'll just cancel his plane ticket, and he'll be absolutely devastated. All because of you." He punctuated the last sentence with a kiss after each word.

"You entire great sap." John repeated, laughing, and pulled Sherlock closer to him.

Sherlock even made sure that John was seated relatively comfortably, before easily loading both their bags into the overhead lockers, then gracefully breezed past him and settling into the window seat.

"Are you alright?" he asked, and John realised that he hadn't done his typical survey-the-country-by-hanging-out-the-plane-window-during-take-off thing. Instead, he'd watched John cautiously, making sure that the doctor wasn't caused any pain by the completely un-orthopaedic airline seats.

John grunted by way of reply.

Sherlock sighed gently, and reached over John to flick up the armrest on the further side. He undid John's seatbelt, and lifted the armrest between John and himself as well, then wrapped a hand around John's upper arm to provide him support.

"Up," he prompted, and John stood, in a manner of speaking. His knees were still bent, and he was hunched over to avoid undue strain, but fortunately, Sherlock didn't leave him standing for too long. He swung his legs up along the row of seats, and drew John to sit on his lap, back resting against stomach, and the hiss that John released in anticipation of pain turned into a sigh of relief, his whole body relaxing.

Sherlock shifted a little to get comfortable, entwined his arms around John's body, and nuzzled the back of the other man's head, pressing kisses into his hair.

"Have I mentioned I'm sorry, John?" Sherlock murmured, and John didn't need to see his face to know that there was a smug smile covering his features.

"Not often enough, just yet." John grumbled good-naturedly. "You can make it up to me in Mallorca."

"I intend to."Sherlock assured him, unable to snuggle any closer to the other man, but this fact didn't prevent him from trying. "But in the meantime, I am _very_ sorry for buggering you up on your holiday."

John barely smothered his laughter at the disingenuous apology, and elbowed Sherlock in the ribs.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: **This chapter, not at all confusingly, takes place DURING the previous chapter. It's sort of a little flashback if you like, from the POV of Alec.**

Please note that all conversation between Alec and Sherlock should be imagined as being in French. I have thrown in some words and phrases as reminders - they are translated directly after the first time they appear in the fic. I hope this doesn't disrupt reading...

Comments are well and truly love!  
xxRegretteRienxx

It was a well-known fact amongst employees of the Holmes estate, that if you wanted to have any chance of keeping your job, you _had_ to hide your emotions. Not just your standard 'I'm not bored, I promise,' nor even 'It is a privilege and an honour to clean up your belongings after you again, sir, it truly is a task that never gets old.'

No, the employees of the Holmes estate had to put a far greater amount of effort in. If your hair was brushed in a different manner, one of the masters would undoubtedly be able to ascertain your plans to falsify some sick leave in the next week.

If you turned away briskly from being given instructions to complete a task, one of the mistresses would get in touch with your next of kin to inform them of your plans to make a foolhardy monetary transaction.

Nobody was really sure how it worked, simply that it did, and as a result, it was best to remain wooden – _beyond_ wooden.

This had been drilled into Alec since he was very young, and he prided himself on the fact that, since he had been instructed to hide his emotions from an early age, he was the absolute epitome of impassive.

His face may as well have been made of stone, for all the movement it took part in in the workplace. At home, certainly, a different situation entirely, and then while socialising, his expressions were interesting, fascinating, malleable.

The defences he'd built up against showing emotion had even withstood the almost-relentless barrage of hormones; even as his stomach flipped and knotted itself when for a while he found himself lusting after, first Monsieur Mycroft Holmes, then for a time, Georgette, who had provided an extra pair of hands during the considerably demanding Holmes Christmasses and other get-togethers. His body had then decided to be most reactive to Monsieur Sherlock Holmes.

Not a flicker of his eyes betrayed him, not a too-lengthy daydreaming gaze. No, his crush remained his secret until nightfall – when the gardens had all been tended to, dinner with his parents had been completed, and he had finally been able to strip himself of his work garb and slip beneath the sheets.

Then, Monsieur Sherlock Holmes would run rampant in his mind's eye.

It didn't seem to matter which extreme mood struck the youngest master of the estate; Alec wanted to be there and share it with him.

Every time Alec heard that inspired, enraptured intake of breath that indicated the success of an experiment, he wanted Monsieur Sherlock to turn to him in glee – not turn to him, look past him, and dash off to find someone more appropriate to discuss the results of his experiment with.

Every time Alec heard the uncontrolled, erratic gunfire on the estate grounds that signalled Monsieur Sherlock's utter dismay at the devastating dullness of the world, Alec wanted to be knowledgeable enough to help him, to instruct him on using a gun just as beautifully, as elegantly as he usually managed to conduct himself. Alec would stand behind him, whisper into his ear to allow him to focus better, slide his arms around Monsieur Sherlock's body to better position him, to assist him with aiming, and with a long, slow breath, would pull the trigger.

But Alec was never a gunman; he'd never been instructed to bestow his training and skills upon another, least of all Monsieur Sherlock.

A weathered old farmer from a nearby block of land had been summoned by the exasperated Madame Holmes instead; he would spend each session boredly chewing tobacco mixed with cloves, and leaned against trees, or fence posts, or estate-maintenance machinery – whatever was nearby – barely looking at his student or his technique. He would spit out instructions spattered with curses and half-chewed black bits and pieces, and Alec could not imagine what threats had been impressed upon Monsieur Sherlock that prevented his famous foul mood from dictating any spontaneous reactions to the man's brash behaviour.

Alec had had actual partners and lovers through his life, since his terribly confusing younger years, certainly he had. But that didn't mean he no longer had any interest in the fascinating man.

He really had only been chatting to Docteur Watson out of politeness and a desire to practice his English.

Then he'd found out how interesting and friendly the man was, how cute his face got when he scrunched it up with laughter.

Despite his social status, despite the age difference between them, Alec craved to reach over and ruffle the other man's hair. It practically called out for it.

He imagined, later, what Docteur Watson's reaction would have been had he actually done it. Probably a head tilt, with that quizzical expression he had whenever Monsieur Holmes did something that he didn't exactly approve of, and was stopping himself from commenting on.

Not exactly sure why, Alec imagined what would have happened had he kissed Docteur Watson. Quite apart from the risk of incurring Monsieur Holmes' wrath, Alec supposed – hoped, rather – that Docteur Watson would be surprised, but highly receptive, positively responsive. He wouldn't want to be rude, after all.

But, truth be told, Alec suspected that Docteur Watson would take offence at his being so forward; he was English, after all, and they were quite a restricted people, from what Alec understood, from the few English exchange students he had encountered during his schooling.

They were always slightly on the back foot when nudity was suggested at a party – but really, why bother wearing clothes in a hot tub? You couldn't enjoy it properly while dressed! – and tended to be more protective of their romantic relationships, more secretive, and Alec found that particularly difficult to comprehend. If you had a love, had managed to find a love, you should share it, share the joy. That was only right. It was selfish otherwise; ridiculous.

Alec believed this with all his heart, but had to lock his objections away, for fear of causing hurt or offence. However people wanted to live their lives was their concern; none of his business.

So he didn't interfere with Monsieur Holmes' and Docteur Watson's relationship, maintained a professional distance, didn't make a move, retreated behind his impenetrable façade.

But he'd ruined it all, thrown it all away. Now, Monsieur Sherlock had been Monsieur Holmes for only a few months, since he'd officially inherited the estate, and Alec had destroyed everything this afternoon, by reacting: horrendously, emotionally, spontaneously, when Monsieur Holmes had shoved him away from the side of Docteur Watson.

So it wasn't a surprise when he saw the recently-returned master of the house striding across the courtyard purposefully. Here it was. After his family had worked for the Holmes' for generations, his slip, his idiocy, was going to cause them all to be homeless. His father was too old to be cast out, to look for new accommodations, and Alec himself had been struggling to find alternative employment as it was – how would they possibly cope?

Alec fought to maintain his work face as Monsieur Holmes approached. "_Bonjour_, Alec!" {Hello} he exclaimed, almost joyously. "Just who I was looking for!"

What happened next completely took Alec by surprise.

Monsieur Holmes had explained how he'd simply been playing a game in the gardens earlier, and in fact, had no qualms with Alec's only-too-obvious crush on his partner, the lovely Docteur Watson. Alec had protested his innocence immediately, not wanting to intrude on their relationship, or cause offence to their English sensibilities. But Monsieur Holmes had talked over him, ignored his protestations, and pointed out a myriad of details regarding Alec's attentions including the hat he had chosen to wear that morning – crumpled suede, which he could respectfully doff in a second, without resulting in hat hair; a deep brown colour, closely matching Docteur Watson's favourite jacket.

When it was put like that, Alec considered, how could he have been so obvious?

Monsieur Holmes leaned in close to whisper the next bit into Alec's ear, his breath tickling the other man's cheek, "You forget, perhaps, that I spent a far greater portion of my upbringing _here_, than in England. _Mes susceptibilités n'appartiennent pas exactement en Angleterre._" {My sensibilities do not exactly belong to England.}

Alec wracked his brain, trying to understand what exactly was meant by that, when Monsieur Holmes placed his hands on Alec's shoulders and kissed his cheeks, not like an Englishman, but like a European: right, left, right.

"Join us in our room for dinner tonight." he commanded, with just enough leniency that Alec could refuse without causing offence, or inciting punishment.

Alec didn't refuse.

Monsieur Holmes seemed please with this, and a final kiss was delivered to Alec's mouth. It definitely wasn't an English kiss. It wasn't exactly a European kiss, either. It was a devastating kiss, full of promises and threats.

To say it was a shock to the system was an understatement. Oh, god. He wanted to fuck his master. Desperately. Had wanted to for years. And he wanted to fuck his master's partner. Worst and best of all – they seemed to want to fuck him.

"_Ah, Dieu!_" {Oh, God!} Alec gasped, when they finally broke apart.

Monsieur Holmes smiled again, impossibly showing even more teeth than he had before.

"_Adieu._" {Goodbye.} he chuckled, in such a way that made it clear he knew that wasn't what Alec had said, and departed swiftly.

The rest of the day passed in a blur, until Alec found himself having somehow made it to the door of the bedroom. He must have knocked, because the door was opened by Monsieur Holmes himself.

"Right on time." Alec was told (although there'd never been any arrangements for a specific hour), and ushered into the room. He concentrated on walking straight, on fighting the wobble in his legs, on anything _but_ the huge four-poster bed on the other side of the room, on anything _but_ the fact that Monsieur Holmes' hand was resting very possessively – not on the small of Alec's back, but actually on his arse.

_Breathe_, he instructed himself, and managed to incline his head in greeting to Docteur Watson, who was already seated at a peculiar, triangular table (which surely hadn't been part of the estate's property prior to today?). Alec wondered whether the others' hearts were pounding as hard as his.

The design of the table meant that each of the three men could reach the other with ease; much more reciprocal than the standard square table, which would have meant that Monsieur Holmes could reach John and Alec quite readily, but they couldn't have reached each other.  
_  
Was that why this table was chosen?_ Alec wondered, madly, and forced himself to quell the paranoid suspicion that the duo had tonight completely mapped out.

"By the way, Alec," Monsieur Holmes explained, as they joined Docteur Watson at the table. "It's okay to forget the formalities tonight, I am sure. We are Sherlock and John."

Alec nodded, but couldn't bring himself to imagine uttering the incredibly informal 'Sherlock'. Not in a million years. The man was Monsieur Holmes. To address him as anything else would be improper! Docteur Watson, on the other hand...

"Would you like me to pour you some more wine, John?" Alec offered, trying his best to pronounce the name in the English manner. Monsieur Holmes smiled, and Alec had to stop his hands from trembling while pouring the wine when a knee nudged meaningfully against his.

John was obviously, quietly pleased about the specialised table, as he reached across the corner to be able to brush against Alec's forearm as much as possible during the meal, and even reached up to Alec's lapel to draw him closer at one point, determinedly, but sweetly, engaging him in a kiss.

Alec was also quite pleased with this – John was, after all, a very attractive man, but Alec couldn't bring himself to initiate, only reciprocate John's attentions. He didn't want to do anything wrong, to upset the others. These two were clearly lucky enough to have a great deal of love and lust for each other; and he hoped beyond hope that he wouldn't just be asked to watch. That had happened previously, when a threesome in a different group had been suggested. Alec hadn't enjoyed just watching nearly as much as the others had seemed to expect that he would.

Monsieur Holmes was behaving decidedly sweetly towards John, which was something Alec had never witnessed before. He was clutching the doctor's left hand in his right, which made it very awkward for both of them to be able to eat.

John didn't seem to mind, though, sighing tolerantly and then carrying on. He spoke to Monsieur Holmes briefly, prompting the other man to "mmm" in a non-committal manner.

"I think I might need you to translate for me, Monsieur Holmes," Alec ventured. "What did John say?"

Monsieur Holmes smiled oddly. "That I would probably have to work as a translator tonight. Are you finished with your meal?"

He was, as it happened. The dish was brilliant, as expected. Although it was one that was far too expensive for him to purchase himself, Alec was familiar with it, from blatantly scavenging from the chef when he was younger and sent to the kitchen to lend a hand and stay out of trouble.

John pushed back from the table decisively. Alec's eyes followed the other man's movements, as he stood gingerly, himself. It seemed as though a spell of restraint was broken: Monsieur Holmes seemed instantly drawn to John's side, latching his mouth to various places on John's neck, and doing his damned best to ensure there were no gaps between their bodies.

John succumbed to it initially, then opened his eyes to locate Alec, who hadn't stepped away from his place at the table, suddenly feeling terribly out-of-place, and not knowing what to do with himself.

John hissed something to Monsieur Holmes, and Alec thought he picked up on the words "don't" and "selfish". Monsieur Holmes muttered in response, shaking his head stubbornly. He persisted with his attentions. John, meanwhile, broke a hand free of the embrace, and extended it towards Alec, beckoning, and Alec found himself moving forwards, almost dazed.

He allowed himself time to really look at John now – the other man was older than his behaviour suggested. His skin was more worn than it should be, even for a man of his age, but he'd mentioned that he had worked as a doctor and a soldier when Alec had spoken to him earlier, and his face had an endearing child-like quality about it despite the challenges he had encountered in his life, making it easy to miscalculate him.

"You are so beautiful, so lucky to have such a young face." Alec murmured without thinking, as he traced his fingers in an arc over John's cheek, then up and into his hair.

Monsieur Holmes broke away from kissing as soon as the sentence left Alec's mouth, and uttered something quickly to John, who chuckled at his partner being simultaneously obtuse and accommodating.

However, a 'Thank you' was directed at Alec, and again he was drawn in close for a kiss.

This one wasn't the same as the kiss John had gifted him with a moment ago – the technique was far more reminiscent of the kiss from Monsieur Holmes earlier in the evening. The realisation unexpectedly aroused Alec, and he began to lose himself in the sensation of John's lips against his, tongues tangling and combining their passions together in an increasing want of each other.

Alec jumped, however, when a hand with long, precise fingers grasped his jaw and turned his mouth away from John, making it available for Monsieur Holmes to ravage. Without intending it, Alec whined needily, his hands bunched in John's shirt. He wanted to tear their clothes off, to press all their naked flesh against each other, to see what Monsieur Holmes was like when he wasn't in control anymore, to see whether John became more submissive or commanding once they were in bed – but he didn't know where to start.

They staggered together, uncoordinated, a couple of tangled steps towards the huge bed, Alec managing to trip over a footstool he hadn't entirely realised was there earlier. "_ Desolée_, Monsieur Holmes!" {Sorry!} he exclaimed automatically when he bumped into the other man.

"Sherlock." The growling reply came, and Alec found himself held in place by two hands grasping his wrists firmly together.

"Sherlock." The name was whispered into his ear, before the lobe was taken into a mouth, teased with a tongue, and lightly bitten.

"Sherlock." Alec was forced to stoop, drawn downwards via his hands, and the impetus was removed, replaced by a gentle pressure on his shoulders. Alec dropped to his knees and found himself face-to-crotch with the master of the estate.

"_D-desolée_," he repeated, nervously, glancing up to meet Monsieur Holmes' gaze. An eyebrow was raised in response. Alec took a deep breath to steady himself, and gently grasped the other man's upper thighs as he leant forward, nuzzling with an honest interest. He hadn't thought that he would be brave enough for the natural next step, but his mouth had begun watering, and his hands were steady as he smoothly, delicately, undid the other man's flies.

It was almost a matter of course to gain access to Monsieur Holmes' cock: Alec could hardly believe it. He held it with one hand, stroking just enough to bring him from half-hard to completely hard.

"_Dieu, Dieu, Dieu,_" he murmured, before running his tongue from base to tip on the left-hand side, swirling his tongue around the end, then tracing from tip to base on the right-hand side. It seemed to be agreeable, as Monsieur Holmes groaned, and shifted his feet apart to maintain his balance.

The sound went straight to Alec's own unattended crotch, and he busied himself trying to make the other man elicit that sound at least once more. Monsieur Holmes _did_ groan again, deeper this time, and his body arched back, further, further, and Alec instinctively moved his hands further up Monsieur Holmes' legs, to keep him from falling backwards. His hands brushed against something, and he looked up again, wondering what was going on.

John was pressed against Monsieur Holmes' back, his arms reaching around the other man, partly in embrace, partly to stealthily undo the buttons on his shirt, and Alec caught a glimpse of Monsieur Holmes' bare chest, something he hadn't seen since a number of years ago, when the man had been a boy, and would spend the summers poking around near the lake on the southern side of the estate grounds. Distracted, he would loosen, and on occasion, strip off his shirt carelessly. Alec would pretend never to have seen the naked flesh as he went about the minor tasks his father assigned him, but the images actually always stayed in his mind, taking his breath away.

Monsieur Holmes' chest had changed over the years, had broadened, developed, hardened. He certainly wasn't a child anymore. But his skin was still the incredible white that it had always been – the colour that had made Alec's first glance believe the master was unwell, and gradually realise that it was a self-imposed paleness, caused by days locked away on computers, reading books, conducting chemical experiments – always, always concentrating.

Well, not now.

Now, he was caught between the twin forces of Alec and John, and Alec felt a sudden power, a kinship with John. The two of them could reduce Monsieur Holmes, put him completely at their mercy.

The idea of Monsieur Holmes _begging_ because of him, _gasping_ for breath because of him – _crying out his name_ as he came, suddenly appeared in Alec's mind, and he wanted to make it happen. Needed to make it happen.

He made eye contact with John, who seemed to understand his intent, and nodded, stuck two fingers in his own mouth to slick them up. Monsieur Holmes had no hope, as Alec took as much of his luscious cock down his throat as possible. Monsieur Holmes gasped, then bucked involuntarily as John's fingers apparently began their exploration of his arse.

"John," he moaned, while Alec withdrew for a moment to delicately clear his throat, and fasten his hands on Monsieur Holmes' hips to prevent the motion from being repeated. He resumed his attentions intently, until Monsieur Holmes uttered his name breathily. "Alec..._venez ici,_" {Come here} he gestured, and Alec clambered up as instructed, desperate to please.

Monsieur Holmes kissed Alec soundly on the lips, then nibbled gently at the side of his neck, tracing a line down to his shoulder, meaning that John could now reach over Monsieur Holmes to kiss Alec himself. John had ceased his ministrations at Monsieur Holmes' arse now, and had murmured comfortingly into the other man's ear, before pressing him gently to change his posture.

"_Regardez-vous._" {Look.} John now commanded softly, in his very limited French, and it wasn't clear whether he meant the instruction for Monsieur Holmes or Alec, but both men obeyed, opened their eyes and locked gazes. And so it was, that when John entered Monsieur Holmes, Alec was able to see the incredible, delightful, utterly incomprehensible look of _pleasurepainrapture_ that overtook Monsieur Holmes' features for the instant.

Alec let out a slow, uneven breath as he attempted to remember just how much oxygen was required in order to keep himself alive. "_Putain..._" {Fuck} he whispered, not thinking.

Monsieur Holmes – although clearly enjoying John setting a comfortable rhythm as he thrust into him, unable to prevent his small vocalisations exhaled on each of John's thrusts forward – was aggravatingly, impossibly composed.

"_Putain_?" Monsieur Holmes inquired, quirking an eyebrow in amusement. "Yet you are still referring to me as Monsieur Holmes, when I specifically requested you to call me Sherlock? It doesn't make sense, Alec." he whispered the last part threateningly, as he lowered his hand to excise Alec from his trousers.

_He was still clothed?_ Alec could scarcely comprehend it, his emotions conflicted as he tried to convince himself that calling Monsieur Holmes "Sherlock" was not disrespectful, that it was fine, that he was being quarrelsome and ridiculous for not obeying the request.

First things first, however. He moved quickly to wriggle out of his suddenly-stifling garments.

As soon as he was freed, Monsieur Holmes wrapped his left hand around Alec's right, and, pressing their groins close together, used his hand to stroke their cocks with determined, forceful jerks. Alec groaned, and arched his back, attempting to increase the friction.

John's right hand snaked around Monsieur Holmes' hip, and Monsieur Holmes grabbed it, drawing it down to fully enclose their cocks.

"_Pu-tain_" Alec swore repeatedly, gasping, unable to bring any other words to mind. He needed to do something with his left hand, he felt, but between his and Monsieur Holmes' bodies was far too crowded now.

He reached behind Monsieur Holmes blindly, unthinkingly, simply needing to grasp, to _feel_, and although Monsieur Holmes' arsecheek was delightful, his fingers soon brushed against something that was even better; caused him to simply rut against the warm slick bodies in front of him.

It was too excellent. This was where John was pumping into Monsieur Holmes' arse. Alec's hand was crushed rhythmically between John and Monsieur Holmes, but none of that mattered. He was fascinated, he could feel Monsieur Holmes' hot, tight ring of muscle that clutched greedily and John's cock, which was so hard, so very very unbelievably hot, and so relentless with its penetration...

Alec wondered, toying around the tight hole with his fingers, could he fit his fingers in as well? Could Monsieur Holmes handle it? Would he welcome it?

As if he read Alec's mind, Monsieur Holmes released a moan that made Alec start, and grab at him, worried that he was in pain. But the newly-sticky sensation at his right hand made him realise.

Sherlock had come. He had been touching Sherlock, and he had come. The other man's eyes were still dark, and his breath uneven. How could Alec resist? He lunged forward to kiss Sherlock passionately, and rocked hi hips in counter action to John's continued thrusts, which had now increased in speed.

He didn't know who came next, only that one voice had cried out, and was soon joined in chorus by another.

Alec flopped back loosely onto the bed, followed closely by Sherlock and John, whose limbs were wrapped around one another. He panted heavily, getting the oxygen back to his brain.

"Sherlock..." he began, revelling in the heavy-lidded eyes turning towards him, "I want you." he declared, pressing his lips to Sherlock's mouth.

"You have me," Sherlock pointed out, running his hand up Alec's arm, and nipping at his bottom lip with a grin. "You have both of us – for tonight."

"Yes, yes of course," Alec agreed, vehemently, reaching over Sherlock to find John.

There he was, and Alec clambered across for a kiss from him, too. John let out an exhausted moan, but smiled at Alec's eagerness, and happily returned the attentions.

Alec suddenly felt like he understood exactly why Sherlock loved John so very much – certainly the man was educated, friendly, good-looking, but also, he was fascinatingly deceptive. Perhaps he did it unconsciously: while he seemed for all the world about to fall asleep, his lips, mouth and tongue were still captivating, and the grasp he had around Alec's waist was firm and unrelenting. Alec knew that if he attempted to move away right now, he wouldn't be permitted to even budge. Well, that was just fine: Alec had no interest in being anywhere else in this instant.

Experience told him that most other men didn't like their cocks to be touched shortly after coming (this wasn't the case for himself, but then, he didn't like his nipples to be played with, and most other men did).

He kept this in mind as he sought out physical contact again, experimentally tracing around John's nipple with the edge of a nail.

Perfection.

John squirmed and gasped between their mouths, prompting Alec to press closer against him. Alec paused their kisses to quickly lave some fingers with his tongue, then applied the resulting moistness to the sensitive bumps on John's chest.

The response was, again, everything Alec could hope for. John continually uttered small sounds of enjoyment, and Alec noticed after a while that John's cock was hardening again, as he ground his hips against the other man.

Alec could hardly believe it, and was about to express his amazement, when, Sherlock shimmied out from beneath him.

_Oops_, Alec realised, _Left him alone again. _And_ I was monopolising his partner. That's really not good.  
_  
He twisted away from John to look Sherlock face-on. "_Des_ - " he began, but was cut off with a forceful kiss.

"Stop apologising," Sherlock warned. "Or I'll start thinking you're not having fun."

His hand, very distractingly, traced its way down towards Alec's cock, which was itself starting to respond to all the attention and promises being insinuated by the other men.

"Now," Sherlock breathed into Alec's ear, just as he began to lose coherent thought again. "Do you want me to go and get the lube so that I can fuck you, or," he stilled his hand. "Do you want me to accept your apology?"

The message was absolutely clear.

"_Lubrifiant._" {Lube} Alec said, not realising until the word left his mouth, just how very much like begging it sounded.

"_Lubrifiant?_" John repeated, an odd smile taking over his face.

"_Lubrifiant!_" Sherlock crowed triumphantly, waving the small tube.

Alec couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculous exchange. It was like some adults-only version of a Teach-Yourself-French language video.

The tube, after Sherlock squeezed a portion into his hand, was carelessly tossed onto John's chest, the man wrinkling his nose in mild tolerance of Sherlock disarray.

"Hmm," Sherlock mused, his mouth right next to Alec's ears, "Now, would this be better spent here?" one of his remarkably long fingers tracing up along Alec's crack, slipping deftly just between his cheeks, teasing, considering.

Had Alec been able to think of anything aside from the sensation, he probably would have realised just how much Sherlock was enjoying simply playing with him, driving him to the edge of control, removing his ability to be coherent.

It would have been so easy, had Sherlock been a cruel man, for him to demolish Alec, shatter his character and leave him broken.

Alec was beyond reason, and could only respond with lustful moans.

"Or perhaps here?" Sherlock offered the alternative, running his other hand down Alec's front, rapidly achieving his goal. There was absolutely no hesitation as he wrapped his warm, slick hand around Alec's cock and tugged determinedly.

"_Merde, oui! Dieu, Dieu, Dieu!_" {Shit, yes! God, god, god!} Alec cried out uncontrollably. He thrust into Sherlock's fist, and attacked John's mouth with a passion that was initially met by the other man, then returned with vigour. Alec dragged their bodies closer together, seeking friction.

The movement dislodged the tube of lube, bringing it to Alec's attention once more.

His hands were shaking far too much as he attempted to unscrew the lid, and his lack of success led John to give him a sympathetic smile, take the tube, flick the lid open, and hand it back with a small laugh at Alec's fumbling.

Alec ignored his blush, and squeezed the tube urgently, causing far more of the solution to spill out than he'd intended, but no matter, no matter. His fingers were coated enough for what he wanted, definitely. He reached around John and played his fingers gently along John's crack.

The other man sighed against Alec's mouth, causing Alec's desire to get the better of him.

This, all this, was on offer. He had to take it. His cock was was fully hard again, courtesy of Sherlock's ministrations, but now he lightly brushed Sherlock's hand away as he shifted on the bed. He wanted to roll John onto his back and part his knees with a firm and gently touch, but thanks to his shaking hands, it was impossible.

John seemed to know what was in his mind again, and repositioned himself. Alec was impatient, hardly left a space for breath before he shoved one, then a second finger immediately after, into John's arse.

His hole was already somewhat moist and welcoming, causing Alec to realise that the duo must have had sex earlier today, and although their activities had nothing to do with him, Alec found himself getting more turned on by the very very vivid images of Sherlock and John now tumbling around together in his mind.

He went to add a third finger to penetrating John, when suddenly his own arse was being assaulted.

"_Merde, Dieu, oui!_" he shouted, bucking dramatically before being stilled by Sherlock's other hand holding his hip.

"God, you're tight," Sherlock muttered, his voice strained and at a lower pitch than usual. "I have to fuck you. I need to." he confessed, and Alec's mouth went dry. He hadn't dared to hope that this would happen.

"Yes. Please, yes."

Sherlock's warm body vanished from where it was pressed against Alec's back, but returned in an instant.

A condom was waved in front of Alec's face, and he took it mutely, struggled to free the rubber from the foil.  
Sherlock, meanwhile, was speaking urgently in English to John, who responded in the same tone of urgency and lust, lifting his hips and placing them on Alec's hips.

"Put it on." Sherlock instructed, gesturing to the condom in Alec's hand, and tearing open a second small packet for himself.

"I'm going to fuck you while you fuck John. Doesn't that sound good?" he pressed a moist kiss to the side of Alec's neck.

"Yes!" Alec exclaimed, arching back into Sherlock. "Definitely, please!"

"We both want you to." Sherlock assured him, and leant Alec forward onto John.

John's eyes were dark, lustfully so, and he craned up to kiss Alec encouragingly. "Do it." he whispered, and a shiver ran through Alec's body. This was real. He wasn't just an observer, he wasn't just there to fuck one of them, he was getting everything. It was more than luck, it was miraculous.

He lined himself up, and took a deep, shaky breath.

Sherlock huffed in impatience. "He can bend _much_ further than that," he pointed out, leaning heavily against Alec as he grabbed hold of John's ankles and looped them over Alec's shoulders.

The two men, now pressed so much closer together, gasped, but Alec was pleased to note that John did not seem to be even slightly challenged by the new position.

"You're incredible," he whispered, awestruck. He marvelled in the flattered smile that spread across John's face when Sherlock's translation caught up, but he was already pressing in, so John's expression rapidly flickered through flattered, to an anticipation of pain, to satisfaction.

Alec began thrusting wantonly into the other man, wanting to make him cry out again. John tipped his hips deliciously to draw Alec further in, tightening just enough to provide friction.

"No." Sherlock growled, reminding them that this was not everything, there _was_ yet more.

Sherlock's fingers clenched Alec's hip fiercely, while his other hand opened Alec up further, ensuring that the next step wouldn't cause undue pain.

"Come _on_," Alec hissed, desperate to be allowed to move again, desirous of feeling Sherlock inside him, pushing him into John's wonderful, wonderful heat.

And then, they were all together, and it was too much.

He couldn't lift his head from John's collarbone, he couldn't draw breath.

"Sherlock?" John asked, nervously.

"_Ça va?_" {Are you alright?} Sherlock asked in turn, carefully keeping still while Alec adjusted. He was a Holmes, he didn't really need to ask – he could probably read the number of goosebumps that had leapt up on Alec's arms in response to the new sensation, and in fact, tell Alec whether he was okay better than Alec realised, himself.

"_Ça va,_" {I'm fine.} Alec replied eventually, having focused on breathing, relaxing into Sherlock and John's combined soothing touches. "_Bien._" {Good.} he confirmed, giving John a smile.

John's concerned-doctor expression switched back to lover, and he rested his hands on Alec's waist. "Very _very_ good, Alec." he commended the younger man. "Slowly, Sherlock."

The latter huffed once again, as if to say, "of course" or perhaps "do you think I'm stupid?" but placed his hand over John's on Alec's side, just short of properly holding hands, but with every observable intention of doing so.

His other hand was still on Alec's hip, and initially guided the other man to move in synch with him. It only took a moment for Alec to learn to match his movements, and then it was beautiful.

It wouldn't have been, really, to an observer. Far too much sweat over them all, not to mention the come already spattered everywhere from their first bout. And Sherlock kept grunting with exertion – actually grunting! How unsophisticated was he right now? John, on the other hand, moaned throughout in his acrobatic position, and Alec couldn't wait to be able to _see_ him as he came.

To him, to them, it was ballet, it was coordinated, it was graceful, even with the soundtrack of flesh sliding between, and slapping against, flesh. It was stunning.

Alec truly hadn't thought that any of them would be able to come a second time, not so soon. Not without any sort of a rest in between. But then, John had already contradicted Alec's expectations by getting hard again, and Sherlock was known for being brilliantly enduring – Alec shouldn't have been so surprised when John had shouted incoherently and stiffened beneath Alec's body. His eyes had closed, of course, but it was only momentary, and then the wonderful blue was back for Alec to enjoy however he willed.

"John," Sherlock murmured desirously, leaning over Alec's shoulder to be able to kiss his partner, and the act had such an effect on Alec – not only did it press him harder into John while Sherlock pushed into him harder, John's come was also spread between his and Alec's bodies to a greater extent, but most of all, being able to see their lips and tongues working together, up close, made the passion that they felt for each other completely apparent to Alec, near-tangible, and he was coming as well.

"_Dieuuuu!_" he shouted, and was dismayed to notice when he returned to his senses, that Sherlock and John had parted.

John was smiling at him though, slightly unfocused, but his legs still relaxed in their awkward placement over his shoulders. He murmured something as he brushed a lock of Alec's hair out of his face, then kissed him gently.

Alec knew he had an entirely sappy smile on his face after this, and he loved it. He could taste Sherlock on John's lips, and he couldn't think anything more spectacular.

"Just...a bit – oh god – longer..." Sherlock panted in translation, then proceeded to rapidly fuck Alec to finish himself off.

"Godddd!" he shouted on the final thrust, then dropped limply onto Alec's back.

There was nothing left. The three men fell onto each other, chests heaving, eyes practically shut. After a beat, limbs were rearranged, and Alec drew himself out of John, Sherlock drew himself out of Alec. Condoms were disposed of, and Alec took it upon himself to go and fetch some damp cloths to clean them all up with.

"Monsieur Holmes," Alec began, "If you and Docteur Watson would care to arise for a moment, I will gladly change the bedsheets for you." he offered.

Monsieur Holmes barely spared Alec a glance. "No, we'll simply adjourn to the next room." he announced, tossing his used cloth on the bed, uncaring.

"Ah, of course." Alec nodded, and began gathering up his clothes.

"You're not seriously going to get dressed to come to bed, are you?" Monsieur Holmes inquired lazily, one arm draped over Docteur Watson's shoulder as they made their way to the door.

"I...was going to get dressed to cross the estate grounds to return to my bed, Monsieur." Alec faltered.

"Absurd." Monsieur Holmes said dismissively, and yawned. "Come on. You can go back to your bed in the morning, if you like it so much. Stay here now."

Alec was overwhelmed with gratitude. He hadn't really wanted to go back to his own bed, alone, but it hadn't seemed right to assume he had permission to stay.

They climbed into the second, luxurious bed, and clambered under the duvet.

Monsieur Holmes made sure that Alec was in the middle, making it possible for both Docteur Watson and himself to snuggle against him.

"_Bonne nuit_, Docteur," {Good night, Doctor.} Alec murmured, receiving a muffled reply.

"_Bonne nuit_, Monsieur," {Good night, sir.} Alec then said, which prompted the master of the estate to snarl with a complete lack of energy, "Stop calling me 'Monsieur', or I'll cancel your plane ticket."

Alec blushed at having so foolishly angered the man again, and then he was struck by confusion.

"Plane ticket?" he inquired.

"To London, after John and I return from our holidays. We want a repeat performance, Alec. Do you think you can manage that?"

Alec nodded rapidly. "Definitely! You are so generous! I won't let you down, Mon – Sherlock!"

"And I won't let you down, _mon_ Alec." {my Alec.} Sherlock kissed the top of Alec's head with a contented smile. His eyes slid closed, but his eyelids kept flickering, betraying that he wasn't completely relaxed.

As Alec drifted off, he wondered just when Sherlock had managed to talk to John and organise him a ticket to London. The men were absolute marvels.

-TBC-


	4. Chapter 4

Warnings: This chapter contains dub-con, specifically sex involving a sleeping person - although, it is sex _**initiated **_by said sleeping person. I don't know if that is triggering or problematic for any readers, so I figured it was best to be upfront about it. Please avoid if this subject matter may be upsetting to you.****

A/N: Hello, all! Just wanted to drop a friendly line explaining that I've taken a few creative liberties with this chapter, and I think I've created a flight route, specifically: Bordeaux-Mallorca direct. I'm not really sorry about that, as it works rather well for my story (who'd've thought?), and is far more suitable than going back to earlier chapters and changing their holiday destination, and more interesting than putting the boys on a charter plane. So I'm hoping that I can be forgiven for this.

Read on! :)  
xxRegretteRienxx 

John woke to Sherlock's hand trailing lazily over his belly. It was so cosy, possibly the most cosy he'd ever been on a plane, and he'd dozed off as a result – on a flight which was again meant to last less than an hour, as well!

At some point, a steward/ess must have draped this airline blanket over him and Sherlock, and the empty seats across the aisle made the whole situation very enjoyable. He could almost imagine that they were on a private flight.

He sighed in satisfaction, and snuggled against Sherlock, whose hand dropped lower in response.

"John…" he murmured, and John grabbed Sherlock's right hand to place a kiss in the palm. He twined the fingers of his left hand with the fingers of Sherlock's right hand, resulting in having one arm crossed over his chest.

He then realised that although the movements of Sherlock's other hand were slow and distracted; that was _definitely_ an erection pressing against the back of John's thigh. He smiled to himself. When the fuck had they both turned into such nymphos? It must be a side effect of the holiday.

John slipped his right hand under the blanket and flicked open the button of his trousers and unzipped the fly. He was nervous about being spotted by a passing steward/ess, but at the same time, he wanted it, wanted to feel what it was like to risk exposure.

It wasn't the same as anything they'd done at Bordeaux; that was a private residence. This was an actual public location.

It actually took Sherlock a moment before his hand wandered across and encountered John's unfastened trousers, but when he did, a pleased sigh escaped his lips.

"By the way, my arse feels a lot better now, thanks for asking." John said wryly.

In reply, Sherlock grasped John's cock firmly and began stroking in a regular rhythm.

"Oh…" John moaned, rocking his hips into Sherlock's hand, "Good apology. _Very_ good apology."

Sherlock hummed, and the gentle rumble vibrated through John's body as well.

"Oh, John." he murmured again, and something struck John about the soft lethargy in Sherlock's voice. Sherlock rocking his hips against John's rear, however, soon distracted him from analysing it too closely.

Sherlock rocked upwards into John's body, his movements just short of being actual thrusts, and John supposed the detective was being a little cautious of hurting him again. He'd have to reassure Sherlock that it took a little more than one night's over-exuberant activities to really put him out of commission.

Until then, John decided, it was far more interesting to devote his attention to just how synchronised Sherlock's strokes were with his near-thrusts, almost as though, were John not so inconveniently placed, Sherlock would merely be jerking himself off. But John didn't feel as though he was in the way, as Sherlock's hardness was pressed into him enthusiastically with every push-pull action, and a small patch of moisture was developing in a very specific location.

"Oh god, Sherlock." he uttered, as a certain pressure built up, and his breath became more and more difficult to catch.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god – " the plane lurched suddenly inn a patch of turbulence, and John joined the scattered cries of startlement with his own exclamation of almost-release.

Sherlock's body changed, tensed, and his hand did something magical, delicious, twisted, and John was gone, spending everything over the unfortunate airline blanket, and biting into his hand hard, to muffle his actual orgasm.

John lay still for a moment, panting, then turned and shifted, to be able to access Sherlock's cock.

"John?" Sherlock asked, his eyes lust-dark and hair beautifully skewiff.

John kissed away the expression of confusion, and set about returning the favour he had just received.  
Sherlock wasn't far from the edge, and John took in his tells urgently: loose jaw, head back, absolutely _heaving_ for air, his eyes completely unfocused.

This was not going to be a Sherlockian, clamped-down breath of air as he came.

This was going to be a shout, a yell, and John's reflexes kicked in.

He clasped his hand over Sherlock's mouth, inadvertently smearing a little of his own saliva over the other man's face.

Sherlock instinctively bit down, and John allowed himself a sharp exhalation to deal with the pain.

A final shudder from Sherlock indicated to John that it was all over, as did the splash of hot come over John's fingers.

The tension vanished from Sherlock's body again, and his tongue darted out to caress the four red crescents on John's palm. He lifted his eyes to meet John's gaze, revealing that the expression of confusion had returned to his face. But he didn't speak, yet.

John used the airline blanket to wipe Sherlock clean – _should they leave it on the plane, or take it with them when they disembarked? Surely the airline wouldn't want to use it again?_ – and then used it to guard against any wandering eyes, as he tucked himself back into his trousers.

Sherlock absently did the same, with a little more difficulty since John was inhibiting his movements.

"John – " he started again, but was silenced with another kiss.

"It was a lovely way to be woken up." John assured him.

"Um." Sherlock replied, rubbing his temple aggressively. "Have I…mentioned to you previously that I'm somewhat of a…that is…well…you know."

John was at a complete loss as to what the madman was rambling about.

Clearly, this incomprehension was showing on his face, because Sherlock drew a deep breath and explained, "I somnambulate, John. Quite often, really. I'm surprised you haven't encountered it previously with me."

His fingers were dancing nervously over John's body, plucking at his sleeves, unsettled and anticipating some form of negative judgement.

"Somnambulate?" John repeated quizzically. "What does that have to do with anything?" he inquired.

"I was asleep just then." Sherlock explained, still worried, but patiently walking John through to understanding.

"But you didn't even walk anywhere, unless you're able to lift me off your lap in your sleep and then lift me back onto your lap without waking me up either…" John disputed, trying to make sense of things.

A memory flashed up in his brain, of a dry medico joke, referring to the more immodest bedbound patients as 'ambulatory': it was a shorthand that minimised the embarrassment caused to nurses (especially newly qualified ones) from walking in on too many episodes of patients' self-gratification.

His eyes widened in comprehension. Sherlock mirrored John's eyes, but the rest of his face maintained a mournful expression.

"When…when did you wake up?" John asked, concern now edging his voice.

"When you decided to turn around and toss me off." Sherlock said with an emotionless certainty. "Which was rather disorienting, I can tell you, because the dream that I'd been having just prior to this was _remarkably_ closely related to the reality. It was, as you said, a very nice way to wake up."

John took a moment to absorb the information. He was fine with Sherlock being a somnambulist, he really was. Except… "It's not bad, is it? I mean, the…sex, while you were still asleep. I didn't know that you were asleep, otherwise I wouldn't have, um…"

Sherlock's lips quirked, in his surprised-that-someone-was-showing-him-compassion expression.

"From what I have deduced, John," he brushed his fingers over the toothy indentations on John's palm, "_I_ managed to toss _you_ off in my sleep. I don't think that I need to give you my consent for that, more the other way around, and also, it was merely a sexual interaction, quite satisfactorily enhanced by my subconscious, but not the more intimate and involved actual act of sexual intercourse."

John rubbed his nose abruptly, and flicked his eyes away from Sherlock's face for a moment. Sherlock's eyes widened in realisation.

"Are you _suppressing_ a blush, John?" he asked in an intense breath, craning forward to get a closer look at the hue of John's skin.

"Maybe." John mumbled, and the temperature of his cheeks increased under the touch of Sherlock's hand.

"Impressive." Sherlock complimented, his voice still hushed in awe. "Wonderful. You must show me how you do that one day. Stop it now. I like to see you turn pink because of me, because I've said something, or done something to influence just where your blood rushes to."

John mumbled into his chest.

"What was that?" Sherlock pried, tilting an ear closer to John, and playing his fingers in the fine hairs on the nape of John's neck.

John cleared his throat and met Sherlock's gaze with a pseudo-confidence, an expression that defied others to ridicule him.

"You could keep discussing sex in that ridiculously clinical manner," he offered, causing Sherlock to kiss his cheek happily, then his mouth with love, with reward for being so good for telling Sherlock something that he enjoyed, that turned him on.

He didn't do that nearly often enough, as far as Sherlock was concerned.

"I was certain of that already." Sherlock told him, but the usual note of egotism was absent from his voice, only adulation could be detected now. "Thank you, though."

"Of course you knew." John chuckled, settling back into Sherlock's embrace. "Do you know you talk in your sleep as well?" he inquired after a moment.

"And is there anything of merit contained in my somniloquy?" Sherlock replied in lazy curiosity.

"Well, you're not exactly spouting case-solving deductions," John teased. "So probably nothing of merit by your standards. But your verbalisations are quite comprehensible, which is quite noteworthy."

"Now who's being clinical?" Sherlock accusing, waving the bait in front of John.

John opened his mouth to bite, and just at that moment, the seatbelt sign switched on. Both men glared daggers at the small light.

"Madames et monsieurs, L'avion atterrira à environ cinq minutes. S'il vous plaît se préparer à l'atterrissage, et je vous remercie de voler avec nous aujourd'hui." * The announcement was then repeated in Spanish before being finally delivered in English, but John and Sherlock had already disentangled themselves from each other to sit up correctly in their seats.

John didn't wince at all with the movement, Sherlock noticed.

"Feeling better?" he checked, in case John's new ability to suppress physiological responses applied to this as well.

"Much, yes." John answered with a small smile.

"I think I'll have to check that once we get to the cabin." Sherlock decided suggestively.

"Oi! Which one of us is a doctor, here?" John protested, good-naturedly. "I think I'd have a pretty good idea whether I'm well or not."

"I don't know, you might have made a mistake." Sherlock argued cheekily, deliberately taking a moment to run his tongue over his lips. John's eyes traced the movement. They always did. "I demand a second opinion."

John laced the fingers of his right hand into the fingers of Sherlock's left hand, and drew them to his mouth for a soft kiss.

"Then a second opinion you shall have." he promised. 

-TBC-


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: **This chapter is partly inspired by the fanart by **_**mortmere**_** on deviantart, chiefly their pieces **_**Bliss**_and _The Great Escape_.  
THE BRILLIANT FF won't let me link to these pics, but googleimages "mortmere" and "bliss" or "the great escape" is one way around this. Alternatively, I can provide links via PM (I don't think those get reformatted!)

**Comments are love!  
xxRegretteRienxx**

-

John is amazed that he still feels a tingle in his belly upon seeing Sherlock; he would have thought the novelty would wear off much sooner. But no, the detective ventures out of the bathroom with one towel around his hips, one of his usual collared, button-up shirts hanging open, and he's patting at his hair with another towel as he seeks out his suitcase, and there's that tell-tale tingling.

John is so distracted by the view, it takes him a moment longer than usual to realise that if Sherlock was using _two_ towels, then there are no dry towels for John. He can't quite summon enough negative emotions to respond in a normal manner to that piece of news.

"You bugger," he says affectionately, interrupting Sherlock pulling his trousers on, and defeating the eyebrow raised in his direction with a kiss on the tip of the detective's nose. He rolls Sherlock's sleeves up for him, and non-sequiturs with: "Don't you have any proper tropical clothes?"

"What, a poncho? Or a Hawaiian shirt?" Sherlock inquires, taking the topic change in his stride. He holds still so as to not disrupt John fussing over him. "John, I have reason to think that you currently find me attractive. I wouldn't want to ruin that by making you run for the eye-bleach as a result of such fashion atrocities."

John snorts. "It would have to exist, first."

The eyebrow strikes again, but it's accompanied this time by Sherlock's hands idly stroking John's back. "I assure you, it does. Perhaps not in the mainstream pharmaceutical stock of hospitals or chemists, but definitely from more elusive sources."

John groans. He has quite the impressive repertoire of nonverbal communicative techniques. "I don't want to know. I really don't." He returns his attention to digging through his suitcase.

–

Truth be told, Sherlock is feeling antsy beneath everything. John is being a marvellous cure for boredom, but it has been a long trip – they spent over a week in Bordeaux, and Sherlock hasn't had a case in all of that time.

He can feel the familiar, surly hibernation looming, like an unwanted visitor, like...Mycroft. The mood state itself is also not dissimilar to his brother: cloying, suffocating.

Sherlock only tolerates it because he knows, or at the very least hopes, that it will eventually go away.

On this occasion, Sherlock is resisting just allowing the mood to overwhelm him as usual, knowing that John wants everything to be nice on his holiday.

Such a _simple_ thing, niceness. Surely Sherlock can maintain it just a little longer. He just needs to find something to distract him, to fascinate him.

He isn't intentionally picking fights at first, but he does notice how his heart falls somewhat when John merely calls him a bugger for using his towel. He resolves to try harder. If he aggravates John enough, maybe they can go back home sooner.

There must be something interesting happening in London. It isn't currently the peak season for murders, but Sherlock is willing to take the chance. Things are just so _painfully_ peaceful here!

"You alright?" John questions, after a while, when Sherlock hasn't made a move to retrieve any clothes from his own suitcase, and get dressed after his shower.

Sherlock is taken off-guard by the inquiry into his well-being, as always. It's laughable, really. John is the kind of person who asks 'How are you?' as a form of greeting. He's a damned doctor, for Christ's sake, of _course _he's going to care about whether Sherlock is okay! So why does it always make Sherlock's stomach flip whenever John actually does ask?

"Fine." he lies, scratching at his hair to hide his agitation.

"Yeah?" John looks at him again, and his gaze lingers this time.

"You just seem..." he moves closer to Sherlock, gently wrapping him in an embrace, deliberately resting his hands on Sherlock's latissimus dorsi muscles. Sherlock always tenses them when under stress. "...tetchy."

Sherlock exhales carefully; consciously relaxes as he leans in for a kiss.

"Not at all," he asserts, venturing a smile. _Why on earth is he trying so hard to hide this from John?_

John responds with a smile, but it's not the same kind of smile Sherlock is giving him. There's a quirk to it.

"You know, I think I can tell when you're lying. It's a bit obvious."

_Obvious?_ Sherlock wonders, and is only a second too slow in hiding his startled look.

John's triumphant expression tells Sherlock all he needs to know.

_Dammit. _He goes to move away, but John holds him fast.

"So what is it?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. He sighs. He whines in protest at not being let free.

"Just tell me. Maybe I can make it better?" John offers.

Something within Sherlock finally, unexpectedly relents, and he finds it within himself to answer.

"I'm...bored." he confesses.

John raises his eyebrows in surprise at this response, but seems to understand.

"Because you haven't had any cases?" he asks, and he's not judgmental.

Sherlock nods, avoiding eye contact.

"What if I gave you a case?" John suggests.

"There's been a murder? Here?" Sherlock positively buzzes with the rush of energy that accompanies his piqued interest.

"No, no, not that." John tries to explain, and Sherlock's body sags in disappointment. "Have you visited Mallorca before?"

Sherlock has to admit that his frequent preoccupation with cases has minimised many of his sightseeing opportunities.

"Well," John says, releasing the other man and getting his bathing briefs out of his suitcase, "Let's see if you can figure out what exactly is so special about this place."

Sherlock lunges forward and grabs John's wrist.

"Unique flora?" he demands.

John shakes his head with a grin, easily breaking out of the hold.

"Unique fauna?" Sherlock blurts out immediately after, desperate to know.

"No hints. I've given you your case. The evidence is all over the island. You deduce it." John stands firm on the matter. "Now, I'm going down to the beach to watch the sunset. Coming?"

Sherlock decides to accept this premise, inclining his head minutely, and digs out a pair of flip-flops that John had insisted he purchase. Apparently, the discovery that Sherlock didn't own _any_ footwear that wasn't smart and business-y, requiring polishing, had dictated immediate rectification.

_Not even slippers!_ John had despaired. _Who doesn't own slippers?_ John had marvelled at the fact that Sherlock still possessed all his toes, despite going around the usually-chilly flat barefoot when he was in one of his negating-the-need-for-getting-changed-out-of-pyjamas-or-maintaining-basic-hygiene-practices moods.

"Will I require swimwear?" The question takes John by surprise.

"Of course!" Perhaps his reply is a little too fast, too vehement. He's betrayed the embarrassment the question has caused him. "It…might not be as private a beach as it seems." he adds, by way of clarification.

Sherlock smiles mysteriously, and John suddenly realises Sherlock only asked in order to get a rise out of him.

"Dammit!" he exclaims, more amused at his own susceptibility than frustrated at being had.

Sherlock chuckles. "You are a terribly reliable source of fun, John." he comments affectionately, before turning his attention to dressing in his bathing briefs, not wasting time with modesty.

John shakes his head at him, and adopts the more demure strategy of at least turning his back to Sherlock before removing his pants and getting into his own swimwear. The technique doesn't stop him from feeling Sherlock's persistent gaze running over his body, but it does make him feel better, bizarrely.

"Right. Shall we?" Sherlock asks impatiently, clasping his hands together with glee.

There's a spring in his step as he paces excitedly before the huge gap of the opened sliding door, a feature of the cabin that had particularly appealed to John, who just sometimes tired of the feeling of being enclosed that came with living in London.

John wonders for a moment whether he'd actually received a proper promise from Sherlock confirming that he _wouldn't_ bring any equipment on holiday with which he could conduct some of his less-than-savoury experiments, or whether Sherlock had distracted him obviously, physically, damned effectively.

He suspects it may have been the latter.

Try as he might, he can't remember Sherlock saying at any point, 'I promise not to pack any experiment-related paraphernalia,' which was what John most likely would have dictated him to say. Which, now that he considers it, is still too vague, still leaves room for loopholes that Sherlock undoubtedly would exploit.

"Sherlock!" he shouts, as he now has to run after the escaped madman. He dreads to imagine what macabre ideas the other man might have devised For Science, and dammit, he _likes_ eating seafood – he has to stop Sherlock before he ruins that for him!

-

Of course Sherlock hasn't pack any equipment he could use to carry out experiments. John had failed to get an exact oath from him, but Sherlock has been influenced by a number of different sources – Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, not to mention his own peculiar gut instinct – that this holiday should be different, that he should try to behave in a manner appealing to John.

"These shoes are most impractical," he complains lightly, as they make their way down to the beach. "And the implement between my toes feels terribly off-putting."

"Stop whingeing. They're not really designed for practicality." John explains, now reassured that Sherlock will only observe and catalogue the various beach elements in his attempt to solve the riddle – not experiment on them. "You basically wear them to allow your feet to breathe, and dry off easier when you get them wet from going swimming."

Sherlock runs this through his mind. "Feet don't breathe, John." he points out. "But I can certainly understand the desire to prevent chafing, or infection, or possibly even gangrene."

"Yeah," John agrees, just a touch too hasty, reminding Sherlock that gangrene was on the list of not-good conversation items. Sherlock doesn't really know why. Surely John has to deal with it on occasion in his line of work?

"Plus, you can feel the sand without having to take your shoes off." John mentions.

"Ah." Realisation dawns. "Tactile pleasure." he receives an amused grin for his correct conclusion.

"Exactly." John squeezes his hand, and there is that inexplicable stomach lurch again. He definitely has to ask about the normalcy of that, but right now, he's focused on the impending strip of sand. New data is imminent.

-

Unsurprisingly, it's sunny down on the beach: the intermittent palm trees don't nearly provide enough respite.

What is surprising, is that John produces a tube of sunscreen from his pocket, a tube he's managed to stow there without Sherlock's noticing.

The doctor administers the cream to his face and neck dutifully, neatly avoiding the collar and sleeves of his shirt. Practiced technique. Undoubtedly he'd been required to protect himself against the Afghani sun every day without fail – a doctor paralysed from being turned into a fair imitation of a lobster was perhaps not as useful as one would imagine.

That shirt he's wearing looks like it's seen Afghanistan as well, and Sherlock doesn't need to resist the urge to lean in and confirm this deduction with a sequence of specifically-located sniffs. He's with John, he doesn't need to constantly check himself against societal norms. It's one of his favourite things about the other man.

The shirt has been washed, that much is obvious, and expected from a man with John's meticulous attention to detail and care for his possessions. Beneath the recent washes, however, there is John's unmistakable scent, concentrated to such a degree to tell Sherlock a story about the number of times the shirt has been worn when John had no access to water or soap in order to keep it clean, and his sweat has permeated through the shirt's every fibre. There is the smell of gunpowder intermingled with assorted medicines, and the only way the shirt could have been exposed to that combination of smells is definitely in the field –

"I'm sorry," John interrupts, laughter in his voice. "Should I give you two a moment?"

Sherlock draws back slightly, then presses himself against John's body again, his kiss communicating the reassuring information of just where his attentions are truly directed.

"I'd rather just spend time with you, but it seems that this shirt – " Sherlock tugs at it, concludes that at least a couple of buttons would need to be undone before it can be removed, and sets about that task impatiently, " – is proving to be a hindrance." He finally succeeds in his mission, and the shirt is dropped unceremoniously onto the sand.

"Well, we wouldn't want that, would we?" John asks rhetorically. "But now I perceive a problem with your accoutrements." he points out, undoing Sherlock's top two buttons with greater dexterity than he usually got credit for.

"Accoutrements?" Sherlock grins, pleased with the recent improvements in John's vocabulary.

"Oh, shush." John chides, disposing of Sherlock's shirt and slapping the tube of sunscreen into Sherlock's hand. "Back." he instructs, turning to allow the other man access.

Sherlock complies, without even escalating the contact to something more, merely allowing his touch to be pleasant and soothing. He does cheekily tap John on the bum afterwards, though, which is practically routine.

"Oi," John protests, completely insincerely, then holds his hand out for the tube. Sherlock ignores him, instead sitting down on the sand with an only slightly inelegant "uff". He flicks his wrist, adding the sunscreen onto the small pile of clothing they've gathered, and his thongs are a couple of seconds behind.

John assesses Sherlock's behaviour. The detective isn't sulking or angry – this is just laziness. He's preoccupied with shuffling his trousers off and stretching his long pale legs out in front of him, shifting the sand from side to side.

He lies back now, arms reaching over his head, and an unusual smile steals over his face, as he simultaneously takes in the rough, enjoyable texture of the sand, and analyses it, considers the geographical location of the beach, and the subsequent likely composition of this particular sand, the coarseness not quite worn away from being tumbled around in the waves, or trodden underfoot.

That's all well and good, but the man is going to bloody burn to a _crisp_ if he doesn't get some protection from the sun! John picks up the tube of sunscreen and tosses it onto Sherlock's luminescent, white, exposed belly.

"Put _some_ on, at least, you fool." he instructs, stepping out of his own trousers, and reclining next to Sherlock on the sand. It feels wonderful, liberating, to be on the paradoxically soft-firm surface wearing so little, not a care in the world, not another person visible for miles.

"I have no desire to." Sherlock dismisses it, gathering a handful of sand and letting it run through his fingers, watching the granules fall.

John rolls his eyes. "And I have no desire to put up with you whining and being too sore to move for the remainder of our holiday. I don't know whether this island even _has_ any aloe vera to treat you if you do end up getting sunburnt."

That said, he plucks up the tube again and flicks the lid open, intending to pour it on Sherlock himself, if the other man's going to be awkward about it.

Sherlock's hand shoots up to grab John's, spraying sand along the way, but instead of preventing the application of sunscreen, he (_maybe_ accidentally) increases it. A huge puddle of sunscreen collects on his stomach, and he flops his head back with a frustrated sigh.

"Well, that's…better than nothing?" John offers uncertainly.

"Are you going to rub it in?" Sherlock squints up at him out of the corner of his eye. He's being cheeky, but two can play at that, and John kneels down in front of him with a grin. He presses both hands into the pools of liquid, pushing until Sherlock is forced to rest back on his elbows.

"Wait – What?" the detective sputters, amused, and John silences him with a sunscreen-covered hand over his mouth. Sherlock hasn't shut up quickly enough, and now there's sunscreen between his lips, on his tongue, and he gags indignantly.

He collects some sunscreen into his own hand and swings at John's head, but the ex-soldier is prepared for this, and ducks out of the way. Sherlock's attack splatters against John's shoulder instead, and his hand then slides down across John's chest.

John retaliates, pushes Sherlock off-balance, onto his side in the sand, and now granules begin clinging to them both.

The sunscreen begins to drip off Sherlock now, rivulets running away from his bellybutton, but John is still able to catch some and daub the end of Sherlock's nose with it.

He hasn't really been successful in attempting to get Sherlock to be protected against the sun, but the perplexed annoyance on Sherlock's face right now is so very worth it.

He giggles madly at the erratic splotches of sunscreen, but is cut off when Sherlock seizes his shoulders and surprises him with a kiss.

It's John's turn to choke.

He fights against Sherlock's grasp, but simply cannot win. Sherlock is too determined.

There's only one thing for it.

John darts his head forward, jarring against Sherlock's mouth. It's not enough to draw blood, thank goodness, but it is enough to startle the other man into releasing him.

John wipes at his mouth in aggravation.

"Yuck." he accuses Sherlock, who has a distinctly smug expression now. John wrinkles his nose at the taste lingering in his mouth, and Sherlock's grin only widens.

"I'm going for a swim." John announces, wiping at his mouth. He stands abruptly and sprinkles sand onto Sherlock as he walks past him.

"Won't that wash the sunscreen off?" Sherlock asks with uncharacteristic concern, surprised by John's irrational behaviour.

"We have plenty more here if it does wash off," John points out. "but perhaps you'd better come into the water with me to make sure it doesn't wash off, anyway." he winks.

Sherlock screws his face up. "You're giving me far too much credit - I hardly think that I'm going to be able to prevent _the sea_ from removing the sunscreen from your skin, John."

John sighs, but he's more amused by the fact that the other man is so slow on the uptake sometimes. "Yes, but it'll be nice for us to be in the water together... You know how you like to join me in the shower sometimes?" he prompts.

Sherlock grins, and nods vehemently. John had initially protested against Sherlock's decisions to 'save water', but now he didn't bother, which, to Sherlock, was as good as a permanent, open invitation to jump in and 'ensure John is properly cleaning himself' at any time.

"And you know how you wanted to try the bathtub together, but it wasn't big enough to fit us both?" John continues.

"I still say we should just use Mrs. Hudson's" Sherlock pouts, "It is _patently_ larger, and it's not as though she uses it."

"Boundaries, Sherlock." John reminds him. They've had this talk.

"Boundaries." Sherlock repeats, sulkily, wriggling his toes in the sand.

John rolls his eyes again. "My point is," he says, tilting Sherlock's chin up to direct his gaze towards the ocean, "Look! A giant bathtub!"

Sherlock begins to sneer in response to John's blatantly incorrect statement, but then comprehension dawns. _Not a __literal__ bathtub, a __metaphor__ of a bathtub. Brilliant._

"Come on, John!" he exclaims, spraying sand everywhere as he explodes from his sitting position and sprints down to the water. "Quickly! I want to test a hypothesis regarding the effects of buoyancy created by salt water on the human body!"

"Is that what they're calling it now?" John comments drily, amused at the childlike enthusiasm that has suddenly enveloped the other man.

He wades into the water which is just cool enough to be refreshing, but warm enough for comfort, and catches up with Sherlock, who is hopping from one foot to the other, either in excitement or impatience, it isn't easy to differentiate which.

Sherlock latches onto him and kisses him soundly again, the nasty taste of sunscreen lingering in his mouth.

"Still gross," John grimaces, and takes a mouthful of seawater to rinse away the chemicals.

"Is that better?" Sherlock asks.

"A bit." John admits, which is enough for Sherlock to imitate his actions.

Mouth rinsed, Sherlock pulls him close to plant another kiss on his mouth, and this time, John thinks of seashells and sandcastles and all the paradisical aspects that he associates with the seaside.

"_Much_ better." he affirms, when their lips part.

He then realises that he can't quite reach the ocean floor anymore, and he grabs Sherlock's biceps quickly to right himself.

"Sherlock...what are you doing?" he asks cautiously, as the other man wades them both deeper into the water. But he doesn't kick away to swim back to where he can stand up.

Sherlock chuckles. "Buoyancy experiment," is all he'll confess to, then he plucks John's hands off him, removing the other man out of arm's reach.

John begins treading water immediately.

"Don't." Sherlock instructs him. "The salinity of the seawater in this region should be strong enough to keep you afloat without any assistance on your part."

Dubiously, John surrenders to physics, and finds that the water pushes him up. A little too much, perhaps, as he keeps getting tilted backwards. This is not the same as his local public swimming pool back home, nor the water down at Brighton, though he'd never done more than paddle there, not having visited since he was about four years old.

"Relax," Sherlock is saying, "Let it tip you. It's trying to disperse the energy required to keep you afloat, and it will be much more effective if there is more surface area to work with."

John puzzles over Sherlock seeming to attribute the ocean with a sort of sentience, but really, he doesn't care enough to quibble.

He allows himself to tip backwards, and it is lovely, it's blissful, the gentle, ripply waves rock him, and he can almost imagine that he's safe enough to sleep there. He only weaves his hands through the water on occasion, to keep himself righted, and that is minimal effort.

Sherlock's hand is a light touch on his lower back now, negating the need for John to move at all, and John doesn't even need to look at the other man to know that he has his deep-concentration face on.

It's an expression that should be unnerving, to the point of terrifying, but John has been with Sherlock long enough now to have ventured closer to the other man's special brand of insanity, enough to be comfortable with being stared at in such a way, visually dissected.

"Gravity, tidal energy, buoyancy, kinetic energy, drag and thrust," Sherlock mutters to himself, and although John is well and truly close enough to hear _what_ is being said, he doesn't know _why_. No matter. Sherlock will explain to him if it's important.

The hand vanishes from John's back, but he doesn't sink, and a similar delicate pressure reappears on either side of his hips. John recognises the intent after a second, as a gentle tug is made on his bathing briefs. He flails in the water, splashes himself out of reach and back to standing upright.

"Sherlock!" he chastens, but the other man refuses to be put in his place.

"There's no-one for miles, John." Sherlock points out, utterly unperturbed. "Don't you want to enjoy the ocean to its full extent?"

John dithers for another moment. It's not the nudity, nor the potentially public nature of the situation that causes him consternation; it's the breaking of barriers – even ones as pliant as what constitutes socially acceptable behaviour.

"Fine." he relents, allowing the sea to tip him backwards again. "Fine. But if we get done for indecent exposure or the like, on your head be it." he justifies.

Sherlock doesn't give him a real answer, just chuckles, and the water ripples out from his movements, rocking John's body. He draws John's briefs down gently, but leaves them gathered at his knees.

Small waves lapped over John's hips and thighs, dampening his pubes, droplets gathering in his snail trail. _Rubbish name,_ Sherlock considers to himself. _There's nothing mollusc-esque about that hair at all._ He re-focuses.

The water has laid the curls flat over John's cock, causing Sherlock's mouth to water at the sight, but he tightens his jaw against his desire, only allowing himself to place a small kiss at the base of John's cock, causing it to twitch slightly in response.

"Sherlock..." John murmurs, lifting one hand and resting it on Sherlock's hair, somewhat encouragingly.  
The detective draws back, however, bringing John's hand to his mouth and gently kisses each finger in turn. John keeps his eyes closed against the salty water, but his lips widen into a pleased smile.

Sherlock lets John's hand go, and places his own hand again at the small of John's back. He swiftly straightens all John's limbs, repositioning the man slightly, here; just so, there. The other man is soon floating perfectly parallel with the surface of the water. Sherlock takes a moment to admire his handiwork, to be impressed by how well John holds the pose.

Experimentally, he guides John's arms out from his sides and above his head, and allows him to float again.

_Fascinating._

He presses down gently just below John's bellybutton, and the other man's middle dips slightly below the surface of the water. His cock, however, bobs atop the waves like a small, pink, intrepid seal.

"Fantastic." Sherlock murmurs, and dunks his lover's hips below the surface again, with increased force. The effect on John's cock is the same. It seems to be a separate creature, an independent life force.

Sherlock isn't surprised. He has long suspected John's genitalia of having a mind of their own. He grins, amused by the thought. John cracks an eye at him and giggles at Sherlock's madness.

"You loon," he accuses, but closes his eyes again shortly after, surrendering himself to Sherlock's toying and the mercy of the ocean.

Sherlock stills him again, waits for the ripples to dissipate before completely removing John's briefs. His fingers freeze as he is about to drop the briefs into the ocean, as he reminds himself just how very unimpressed John is likely to be if he loses them for no good reason.

Lips pursed, Sherlock contemplates where best to store them.

Inspiration strikes, and he loops the garment over John's big toe, with a certain self-satisfaction. John's toes flex and stretch at the new sensation, but before he can respond any further, Sherlock distracts him once more, spreads his legs starfish-style and observes, notes, _measures_ how the water works to keep John afloat. He rapidly calculates the mass required that John would not be thus supported by the strength of the ocean – almost humanly impossible, but not quite. It's a question of proportion, for a hippopotamus can float, yet a cannonball cannot. Dispersion of weight is vital; Sherlock has known this since the very beginning of his learnings of physics.

John's body rocks up against his, motivated by the small eddies, bringing Sherlock back from his thoughts once more. He places one hand on John's right hip, the other on his left shoulder. Gentle exertion is required to cause John to turn, but not slop water over his face. He is successful: John doesn't even shift his hand to keep himself righted. He still feels safe. The realisation that John has so much trust in Sherlock cheers him immensely, and he traces watery patterns over John's belly, then down to his lover's cock, still softly bobbing under the impetus of the waves.

He gently strokes it, clasps it, fists it just for a moment until he notices John's blood rush to that specific area. He's playing; he soon abandons the pursuit. Not with any intention of being cruel, mind, despite John's moan of complaint. He leaves the erection unattended – impressive though it is, it's not his main interest at the moment.

He extends one finger, sends it inquiring beneath the waves. Alarmingly, he discovers John's arsecheeks are firmly clenched.  
_  
__What?_ his brain demands, as he runs his hand inquisitively over his partner's arse. It's firm, which is always delightful, but it's _closed_, which is horrendous.

"John," he encourages in a low voice, "Relax, John. There is nothing here to hurt you. Come on, now. Relax."

"Can't." John grinds out, disturbing the water as he shakes his head from side to side. "What if a fish comes up, and – you know?"

Sherlock raises his eyebrows in surprise, and analyses John's face, searching for the tell-tale signs that John's having him on.

At his lack of response, John risks getting seawater in his eyes again, to find Sherlock's thoughts.

_Preposterous._ shoots through Sherlock's mind, but he suppresses it with an effort. "No fish are going to swim near with all these ripples we're creating. Plus," he leans in close to John's face, "Sealife has a tendency to avoid people who are making a lot of noise." he grins predatorily.

John's brow furrows in confusion. "But we're not making a lot of noi – " Sherlock dives at his mouth, cutting him off. He captures John's tongue and sucks on it, mercilessly, gently, mercilessly, eliciting a fantastic moan from the other man.

Sherlock knew that it would, which helps him to ignore his own arousal – directly linked to those brilliant noises the other man creates. He has to focus; keep John's head above the water by supporting it with one hand, and quickly, with his other hand, slips a finger into John's temporarily relaxed entrance.

He breaks off the kiss, and John can hiss a breath in through his teeth, which are clenched now in a grimacing smile; rueful amusement at Sherlock's determined playfulness.

"Still – not really – making a lot of noise, Sherl – oh – godfuck! Fuck!" he exclaims, arching backwards and limbs reaching out wildly in all directions as he tries to gain purchase.

Sherlock has removed his finger, inserting two instead, with no warning, and aiming straight for John's prostate.

It seems he has hit his target, and he knows he is inordinately pleased about this fact. Not so pleased, however, that he can't keep his other hand solidly at the base of John's neck and prevent the doctor from inadvertently dunking himself into the water.

John's left hand swings out blindly, finds Sherlock's side, and grasps hold for all he's worth. It's testimony to just how slender Sherlock has let himself become again, that John is able to press his thumb into Sherlock's kidney at the front, and dig his fingers into Sherlock's back, but now is not the time for an argument about eating _at the very least_, two square meals every day.

He's gripping too hard: there are going to be John-shaped bruises on Sherlock's hip for some time after this, but how can he even begin to care about that?

Sherlock's fingertips are positively _dancing_ over John's prostate, and it's minimal effort now to twist in a third finger past the small ring of muscle to join in tormenting the other man.

"Oh god, Sherlock." John groans, and Sherlock finally notices how hard the other man has become. His cock is jutting out from his body like a ship's proud mast: stiff, erect. _Hmm, on second thoughts, not a mast, the angle is wrong. A prow, then, cutting through the waves as the vessel powers over the water... _Sherlock shakes his head. His eyes have completely glazed over.

_How_ fortuitous he hadn't been speaking aloud! How very, very fortuitous! He feels a new rush of warmth, but it isn't going where it usually does. His cock is hard, but this isn't a second surge of blood in that direction. It's as though blood is zooming to his head instead.

_Fuck,_ he realises, and completely ceases all motion. _Fuck!__  
_  
He works his fingers out of John's arse, and presses his hands against his face, testing the temperature.

_That... is definitely a blush!__  
_  
"John!" he exclaims in astonishment and delight.

"Christ," John grumbles, shifting himself into an upright position. "What?" he asks, his voice thick and groggy from arousal.

"Blush!" Sherlock almost shouts, gesticulating frantically.

John bursts out laughing. It's contagious, and Sherlock's shoulders shake from the hilarity.

"I'm _very_ glad for you," John murmurs, drawing Sherlock closer to him. "It's very attractive, and truly suits you. But... aren't we in the middle of something?" he asks rhetorically, a huge smile gracing his features.

"I believe we are," Sherlock replies, leaning in for an affectionate kiss.

John assertively makes the first move this time, rhythmically tugging Sherlock's cock with firm, determined strokes that make him lose his mind.

"Please, John." he begs, thrusting into the tight, warm fist. He wraps an arm around John's shoulders to hold them close together, and donates his other hand to John's cock.

"Yes," John gasps, rutting against Sherlock violently.

"Careful," Sherlock cautions, slightly unbalanced.

He lifts John with ease. _Buoyancy,_ he thinks to himself, smiling.

John wriggles, making a displeased noise. He _hates_ being tossed around like a child – the years spent training as a doctor were to prove that he was a capable human being, irrespective of his stature; and the years spent training as a soldier were to prove that a lack of height did _not_ equate to a lack of masculinity – and Sherlock always shatters this image.

On the plus side, however, John and Sherlock's bodies are now pressed almost as close together as possible, and that, John feels absolutely no inclination to fight against.

"Fuck...me..." he forces out, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's hips.

"Marvellous idea," Sherlock deadpans, adjusting their positions just enough until his still-clothed cock nudges against John's hole.

"Fuck!" he exclaims, hastily tearing his briefs off. He's freed.

"Now," he announces needlessly, gliding in at the same time as the utterance.

This. Is. Incredible.

If they weren't suspended in water right now, this feat would be impossible. Though Sherlock possesses an unexpected amount of upper body strength, it is, in fact, merely enough to get by, enough to come in useful every now and then. There is no way he could hold John in place and fuck into him like this.

This position isn't new to them, though, they've managed it before, with John splayed over the kitchen table, and Sherlock bending his knees slightly to be at the right height, but it was awkward, uncomfortable, and they didn't do it again. It's much better now, with the water helping to keep John at the right height for Sherlock to thrust into him.

"Yes, oh god – uh!" John cries out in time with the thrusts. His hand finds its hold between Sherlock's waist and hip again, pressing into the small bruises already forming there.

Sherlock winces, but maintains the pace. His eyes fall on John's cock, red, hard, rocking between their bodies, being tossed around by the waves they are creating.

"John," he breathes, "You have to jerk yourself off. I want – I can't – have to – oh, fuck!" he loses his train of thought somewhat, but really needn't have spent his breath, as John's hand is already wending through the water to his cock.

"Yes," Sherlock hisses, eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of John furiously working away at himself, the motion of his body completely under Sherlock's control.

"Oh, fuck yes!" Sherlock finally shouts, blissfully spending himself.

"Jesus," John groans in response to the hot stream released inside his body.

"Oh god," he adds, as Sherlock stumbles a step forwards on suddenly-wobbly legs, inevitably moving John along with him.

"Fuck!" John comes with a shock as Sherlock's hand is added to the task of pulling him off.

John's seed floats on the surface of the water, breaking apart as he moves through it heedlessly, smoothly removing himself from Sherlock's cock, and reaching to kiss the other man.

"Oh god," he pants, leaning against Sherlock's chest. They are both trembling with exertion.

"That was – oh, look." John's attention is captured by the colourful, decidedly tropical, _alive_ sunset which is now taking place.

"Stunning." he proclaims with a quiet awe.

Sherlock "hmms" in reply, trying not to be irrational about the fact that he is being upstaged by the sunset, and failing miserably.

John chuckles, recognising the tone. He moves Sherlock in front of him, embracing him chest-to-back so they are both facing the sunset.

"You are just as spectacular," he murmurs reassuringly, with just a hint of amusement as he presses a kiss to Sherlock's shoulderblade.

"Hmm." Sherlock replies again.

John rolls his eyes. "Equally brilliant and fantastic," he confirms. "But you're different-beautiful. This sunset is fleeting. You, I have the pleasure of seeing every day."

"I beg to differ," Sherlock can't resist countering, with a smile. "The sun has been rising and setting for hundreds of thousands of years, and will undoubtedly do so for a long time yet. I, on the other hand, am the comparatively 'fleeting' being, with a probable _optimal_ life expectancy of 90 years or so. Your syllogism, therefore, is – "

"Shut up." John smiles, resting his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder. "Glad you're feeling better." he says affectionately, and they watch the sunset in a comfortable silence.

-TBC-


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: This _is _part 6 of 6, however, I'm planning to write an additional bonus chapter, of Alec visiting London, due to great feedback on lj from his involvement in chapter 3. This won't be written for a while though (due to reallife doing its usual torturous stuff).

Again, I'm a little bit lost with Britishisms, and don't know what the best term is to refer to clothing worn while swimming. I went with swimsuit. It might be wrong, please let me know.

Finally, an additional warning for this chapter. Schmoop! WHAT?  
I don't know what happened.  
Weirdly, though, I'm kinda happy with it. Do you love it or hate it?

Let the fic begin!  
xxRegretteRienxx

-

John woke to birdsong, a warm embrace, and a pleasantly-aching nether region. It was all such a perfect cliché, even the knowledge that today was their last day in Mallorca was not enough to wipe the contented smile off his face.

There is just the right amount of a slightly cooling breeze sweeping through the cabin from the large double doors that John insisted they leave open for the duration of their stay. Sherlock, strangely, had resisted this, in a rather passive manner, spending the first few nights on the island staring morosely out of the doorway, instead of sleeping.

-  
It wasn't until John finally brought him to bed on the third night and proved beyond a doubt that he was perfectly capable of holding a man down, should one appear out of nowhere, intending to make any attempts on their lives. Sherlock found he could not argue with this definitive proof.

"Sherlock..." John murmured lustfully, awake enough now to make some use of his morning erection, rolling over to see – bedding?

The bedsheet, and the astounding number of excess luxury cushions and pillows were tangled, piled up on Sherlock's side of the bed. They were warmed sufficiently by the island's climate to create the impression that the heat of another body was next to John.

Now John was annoyed. His cock had hardened further, just from the thought of the promise of some enjoyable early-morning sex – something which he'd certainly grown accustomed to over this holiday – but clearly he was to be denied it!

"Sherlock?" he called, hoping that the other man was simply elsewhere in the cabin.

No answer.

"Sherlock!" he called again, allowing the frustration to show in his voice.

Cushions fell to the floor as John swung his feet over the side of the bed to pad awkwardly, uncomfortably, over to the large doorway, to peer out into the surrounding greenery.

No Sherlock to be seen.

Suddenly, a sound caught his attention.

"John! John! John!" Sherlock called excitedly, running through the forest at such a rate that John was amazed the other man didn't come to grief, tripping over obstacles on the ground, or colliding with one plant or other.

He was clutching something in his hand, John couldn't see it clearly from this distance, but didn't care especially, more interested in the fact that Sherlock was _there_. John grabbed him as soon as he stepped into the cabin, swung him around to smack him into the wall. Sherlock moaned into the kiss that John engulfed him with, and rocked his hips forward invitingly.

"You're late." John growled.

"I _tried_, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, and waved the handful of leaves as though they would redeem him. "Look! This plant appears to have a certain healing element. I've spent the last few days and nights observing how a variety of wounded animals have consistently approached it, and either ingested the leaves, or crushed them underfoot and then rolled in the heap, and then today, I decided to consume some of them myself – "

"What?" John shouted, grasping Sherlock's shoulders tightly and examining the other man's physiology for signs of poisoning.

"Um. That is to say, I decided to, but didn't actually do it. I changed my mind." Sherlock explained, his features broadcasting nothing but guilty repentance.

"Not good enough, Sherlock." John denied him. Immediate threat passed, John turned back to his desire. "You still owe me for losing my swimsuit somewhere in the Mediterranean." – because they'd come off John's toe somewhere in amongst all the ruckus a few days ago.

-  
Sherlock had offered to protect John's honour as they both did a nudie run from the water to their clothes on the shore, but John suspected Sherlock hadn't taken it as seriously as he had. This was possibly because Sherlock kept bursting into laughter every time he looked at John's indignant expression.

John had been tempted to withhold sex once they got back to their cabin that night, as punishment, but he soon determined that there were more...effective things he could to to drive the message home _during_ sex than in any other format. And, on the plus side, he didn't have to go without his never-dull, sensational lover!

"I know." The expression on Sherlock's face was probably as contrite as he could manage. "But – "

"No buts, Sherlock. Do you know how long I've been up, looking for you?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's body; absorbing the tense set of his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, and the unavoidable hard-on.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock nodded, fidgeting between sharing the details of his exciting discovery with John, or 'wishing him a good morning', so to speak.

Fortunately, John made the decision for him.

"On the bed, _now._"

There was no arguing with that tone. No-one ever expected it from innocuous John; from quiet, unassuming John.

-  
However, even more unexpected, was Sherlock's obedience to it. Sherlock, who went against orders or suggestions or common sense simply to be defiant, simply to prove a point (even if he was the only one who understood what point was being made). John uttered a command in _that voice_, and Sherlock carried it out. It was incredible.

John drank in the sight of Sherlock jumping to do as he was told, scrambling backwards onto the bed so that he didn't have to take his eyes off John, and still clutching that stupid greenery. It was a movement that should have been ungainly with his long limbs, scrabbling for purchase, but instead was simply enthralling. John's eyes were drawn to Sherlock's mouth, hanging open with his panting, rapid shallow breaths, created partly by anticipation, partly lingering after his run through the island's plantlife.

"Get rid of the sprig. And your pants." John growled threateningly as he advanced on the bed.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he hastened to comply, scattering the leaves over the floor, and laying flat on his back in order to dispose of his clothing more quickly.

John climbed on top of Sherlock, effectively trapping him in a cage of arms and legs, and kissing him thoroughly. He'd picked up the lube from the bedside table on the way, and now set about slathering his fingers with a copious amount.

"Tell me, Sherlock," he said, sitting carefully while applying the lube – letting their cocks press together and rub just enough to increase the hot blood rush to Sherlock's organ. The other man groaned loudly, wanting and needing _far more_ contact than that in order to achieve any satisfaction.

John continued irrespective, knowing that the other man was perfectly capable of maintaining a conversation with this low level of stimulation.

"How sorry _are_ you for losing my swimsuit?" he questioned.

Sherlock met his gaze. "Very." he breathed, and although the word hardly sounded apologetic, his soft, rumbly voice was overpoweringly erotic.

John forgot all about the lube, and focused on devouring Sherlock's mouth for some time. Surely, the secret to the man's hypnotic tones were in there somewhere? John kept exploring, on the ludicrous off-chance of such a discovery, until, finally, they both suffered the inconvenient need to breathe.

John cleared his throat.

"And...how sorry are you for not being here when I work this morning?" he persisted.

Sherlock smiled his wolfish grin. He thought, based on John's response to Sherlock's last utterance, that he had the upper hand.

"Not nearly as sorry as I should be – agh!" he cried out, for John had worked his hand beneath Sherlock, and slid his fingers teasingly upwards along Sherlock's crack.

Sherlock bucked and moaned again, helplessly, entirely desirous of John doing _more_. But that was far from John's intention just now.

-  
John was ridiculously, stupendously proud of the discovery that the smooth curve where Sherlock's arsecheeks met was the location of the man's undoing.

Well, second only to his prostate, of course.

Actually, third, to his prostate, and his genitals

Scratch that – fourth, with Sherlock's mind in the first position, taking into account the irreplicable elation that the detective experienced upon solving a case.

The point was: with slicked fingers, swiping upwards from perineum to lower back, John could threaten further attention, penetration, and the anticipation drove Sherlock wild. John's tongue was almost as good at this task, but there was clearly something for Sherlock regarding the dexterous manipulation possible with fingers.

Anticipation. John could scarcely believe it, except that the brain _was_ supposed to be an erogenous zone, after all, and it only took seconds of exposure to the detective to realise that he was in possession of one which was particularly adept.

-  
It was fantastic, having this avenue of attack, especially after Sherlock had inadvertently revealed to John that he had calculated one of the doctor's weak spots.

Injured, as always, in the process of investigations, Sherlock had been prescribed and administered painkillers, but as usual, the obtuse man simply wouldn't sleep.

Caving to his partner's near-endless pleading, and telling himself that it wasn't, technically, medically _un_suitable, John agreed to their getting each other off, but _not_ sex, as Sherlock would probably pull some stitches and become even more insufferable than he already was.

Sherlock, almost certainly delirious from the painkillers, was definitely delirious with joy that John was giving him what he wanted, and applied himself energetically to the task, commentating the whole way through.

John, used to Sherlock's endless babble, didn't realise for some time that the detective was clarifying his actions as he did them. However, John was resultingly perplexed by one particular mantra that he couldn't quite get his head around:

"Two-thirds...seventy degrees...and...toes!" Sherlock repeated, laughing delightedly at intervals.

John was rather busy being wonderfully blissed out at the time, but finally clued in. Sherlock would trace a finger (two-thirds) up John's thigh from his knee, rotated this position some way (seventy degrees) to the inside of his leg, then fluttered the rest of his fingers over the target, resulting in an orgasmic sigh from John, as well as his toes curling reflexively, expressing his absolute pleasure in a way that he hadn't even been aware of.

It was unfair to the extreme, but now John had his own sex-with-Sherlock-stratagem.

That certainly levelled out the playing field.

With every swipe from John, a fantastic shudder ran up and down Sherlock's spine. John could have spent a day revelling in that particular response, but that would simply be cruel to the detective, now begging in gasps and writhing from John's touch.

"Oh, god, John, John, god, god...please, oh, fuck, please!"

John ran his eyes appreciatively over the sight beneath him, just now taking in Sherlock's appearance properly. The man had been fully dressed, wearing sandals with wet mud practically covering them. John knew that Sherlock had been out exploring earlier than morning, but this was the same outfit he'd worn yesterday.

Sherlock was too vain to re-wear clothing without washing it, especially in this temperate climate which had the capacity to cause a _rock_ to sweat.

Ergo, Sherlock hadn't gotten undressed last night. Why wouldn't he get undressed? Because he wasn't going to sleep. Sherlock hadn't had any rest last night.

John knew that Sherlock had "trained" himself to be able to go great lengths of time without normal quantities of food, rest, hydration – but he also knew that humans actually _needed_ that stuff, whether they allowed themselves to be cognisant of the fact or not.

Two emotions hit John simultaneously. Firstly, love. That was his Sherlock, always off with the mad-cap plans. Secondly, frustration. "You've – got – to learn to look after yourself!" John chastised, with only a hint of tenderness.

He repositioned Sherlock, drawing his knees up, the better to plunge his cock into that maddeningly unrepentant hole. He hadn't prepared the detective: there was a chance that this wouldn't be their usual balance between pleasure and pain.

However, John suspected, that was fairly well the point.

Sherlock stiffened when he realised what John was intending, but didn't speak.

"Ok?" John asked, and there was the caring note, back in his voice.

Sherlock nodded, deliberately, not breaking eye contact.

One slowly released breath, and he was pliant to touch again.

John knew that the excess lube dripping off the outside of Sherlock's arse would probably ease his way; plus the fact that Sherlock was not exactly virginal by any definition. There shouldn't be a problem.

The moment of truth: John pushed forward, and though they both hissed out their breaths, carefully compensating however they could for the briefly sharp drag, a great agony it was not.

"Oh, yes, John fuck, yes, please," Sherlock's usual waterfall of desirous prattle was slightly more strained than usual, but no less lustful.

"I was intending to." John ground out through gritted teeth, before striking up a fast, hard pace without warning.

Sherlock yelped in surprise, alarm, but not pain, and since John managed to coordinate himself enough to hit Sherlock's prostate after his third thrust, pain – real pain – was suddenly completely out of the equation for the time being.

John couldn't have taken his eyes off the detective now splayed over the bed beneath him, even if he'd wanted such an insane thing. Sherlock's body was loose and abandoned, luxuriating in the severe fucking it was being subjected to. His eyes were closed, and he licked his lips, bit his lips, but was unable to suppress his explicit, happy moans.

Just as John was about to tell Sherlock to open his eyes, to let him watch his entire face as he came, Sherlock opened them himself. There was an intoxicated grin of pleasure splitting his face; pupils unnaturally large, and breaths still being gasped.

John's own breath escaped him then, as Sherlock swiftly crossed his legs behind the doctor's back, forcing him deeper into Sherlock's hole.

"Jesus!" Sherlock shouted, despite having instigated the hard penetration himself.

-  
"Sex really makes you quite religious," John had teased the devout atheist one day.

"It certainly makes me believe in a heaven," Sherlock had countered, leaving John flattered, embarrassed, speechless, gaping words hopelessly from the shock.

"Move." John managed to blurt, finally, and though he trembled, Sherlock released his legs minutely; rocked his arse onto John's crotch in an encouraging manner.

He whined as John made full use of being able to move again, and soon his left leg was pressing into John with an urgency that only ever meant one thing.

John glanced down. _How the fuck had he forgotten?_ Nonetheless, there was no mistaking it: Sherlock was about to come.

But he was holding himself back – trying to drag it out. John was not having with that.

"Pull yourself off." he panted, keeping as much of a commanding tone in his voice as he could.

Sherlock whined and arched back, trying to force John to shift and miss his prostate, reducing the stimulation. His hands twitched – almost obeying John's words, but pure obstinance taking over again.

John grunted in frustration, leant forward to grasp those long, elegant fingers, and draw them closer to Sherlock's pulsing, leaking cock. Sherlock gasped out a soft cry at John's movement, and the contact of their hot palms against his sensitive skin.

His tense, resistant arms completely relaxed once John got them to the desired location, and he began to vehemently pursue his orgasm, yet again epitomising the meaning of the word contradiction.

"Yes," John hissed, working to time his thrusts with each dexterous flick of Sherlock's hands.

"Oh, oh, oh, fu – go – Johhhhnnnnn!" Sherlock finally, exultantly cried, spurting his come between them.

"Jesus, Sherlock." John grunted, unable to suppress his smile of pleasure at witnessing every part of Sherlock's orgasm. That face, every muscle clenching, spasming, and then the delicious post-orgasmic haze. That expression of luxuriance was so beautiful on the detective, and John's only regret was that he couldn't see it absolutely all of the time.

"John." Sherlock whispered, staring at him through lust-fogged eyes, a loose smile on his lips.

_Just – oh – so close – _and John lost himself.

-

He must have shouted something, he realises later, when the world stops spinning, and he finds himself collapsed onto the bed; because his throat is raw. He coughs slightly, wincing at the pain, and Sherlock murmurs something into the pillow beside him, prompting John to curl around the other man and plant a kiss on his cheek.

"'S that?" he croaks, and Sherlock twists his face away from the pillow to be more audible.

"Is it because of that plant, and those potentially unique healing properties that I discovered?" Sherlock asks, and John is lost.

"You – what?"

Sherlock's eyes are shut as he relishes his post-coital synapses informing him of only, _only_ good things, but even so, John thinks he can see the detective roll his eyes behind the closed lids.

"The reason that Mallorca is so special." Sherlock clarifies, and John suddenly sees.

"Nope." he smiles, and rolls Sherlock over to kiss him properly.

"Then, what?" Sherlock cries in frustration, awake again, eyes blazing as he searches for the answer.

"Hmm." John says, now harbouring doubts about the answer he'd held in mind for the last few days, since posing Sherlock the question.

"John?" Sherlock asks, calmer now, eyes darting over his face.

"It's...Well. The impossible, eternal beauty of this place, this time. The fact that we can never experience _exactly this_ ever again." John stammered, dreading the snort of derision he is undoubtedly going to earn at the very least. "You know, like the idea that you can never step in the same river twice, because everything in it is changing all the time. That's why it's so important to savour every moment, because we'll never be able to get the exact same thing again, ever. We can come back to Mallorca, but it will never be _this precise_ Mallorca." John said the words in a rush, just to quickly get them all out.

Though he stayed in the close embrace with Sherlock, he focused on a point just above the inside of Sherlock's right elbow, stroking the flexible skin with his thumb in a nervous twitch.

Sherlock finally spoke, an eternity after John had fallen into silence.

"You're not serious." he said, and John's heart fell.

"_Are_ you serious?" Sherlock attempted again, when John didn't respond, and ducked his head down to try and intercept John's gaze.

John tucked his chin further into his chest to avoid the detective's piercing look, but Sherlock, being Sherlock, had more strategies up his sleeve, contorting himself to be able to meet John's lips. Kiss by kiss, he eased John's head back, until the doctor was gasping for air again, his neck stretched as far back as humanly possible.

Sherlock showed no mercy, attacking with a new barrage of kisses.

"You – are – fantastically – unpredictable," he said, sneaking the words in between kisses. "How am I meant to believe you when you are so wonderfully inconstant?"

John giggled, and pushed Sherlock onto his back, rolling on top of him again, forcing the frequent strikes of kisses to stop. Sherlock's features were spread into a broad grin.

"You're the detective, you're supposed to be able to figure people out." John said, poking a finger into Sherlock's chest accusingly. "And who are you calling inconstant, love, when your own inconstancies, by right, deserve their own postal code?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't think I'll ever be able to figure you out, John. I'll never be able to predict you," he said, wrapping every inch of his long limbs around the other man. "And that, unbelievably, is what I find so endlessly appealing about you. The day you stop surprising me will be the day my heart breaks." Sherlock admitted, his body tensing up beneath John as he fought against the surge of emotion which had caused him to say those words.

"It's okay. Thank you." John soothed, running his hand down Sherlock's side. "It's more than okay. I dunno...it's good. Really good."

His words felts completely insubstantial, not nearly powerful enough to even begin to express what he wanted to say. He tried to make sure that every part of himself was touching every part of Sherlock, to show Sherlock just what belonged to him, while at the same time, staking a claim on what of Sherlock belonged to John.

Maybe it turned into something more, maybe their hands and mouths delved lower beneath the covers.

Maybe they wound up making love: slowly, gently, considerately.

Maybe they then had to rush for the shower, throw everything in their suitcases, and make a mad dash for the airport.

Maybe they then spent every moment on the plane sharing long, lingering kisses, and stirring myriad emotions in everyone else aboard.

What does it matter?

They were together, and John, by all accounts was still surprising Sherlock, and Sherlock's heart was still very much intact.

END.


End file.
